


Aim

by visiblemarket



Category: The Avengers (Marvel Movies)
Genre: Action, Adventure, Cliffhangers, M/M, Original Character Death(s), Pining, RST, Roadtrips, Tumblr: imagineyourotp, UST, brief mentions of past child abuse, descriptions of torture, international espionage, moral greyness, questionable relationships, surprise cameos - Freeform
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-02-19
Updated: 2014-03-27
Packaged: 2018-01-13 01:17:53
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 30
Words: 61,879
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1207441
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/visiblemarket/pseuds/visiblemarket
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Clint "Hawkeye" Barton takes on a contract for one Philip J. Coulson. It all goes downhill from there.</p><p>(And uphill for a while. Then downhill again. Mostly downhill, overall).</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> Based on [this](http://imagineyourotp.tumblr.com/post/40756880476/imagine-person-a-being-hired-to-kill-person-b-but) imagineyourotp prompt: _Imagine Person A being hired to kill Person B, but not being able to go through with it, and the two having to go into hiding to protect Person B._

The lid on the vent rattled.

Rattled again. 

There was a metal-on-metal shriek, which would've cut through even the loudest post-office buzz on any other day, at any other time.

But it was three a.m in the morning, and there was no one, not even the occasional night janitor, to hear the shriek, or the succeeding clatter of the vent door falling to the ground. 

Six feet up, a pair of dark, rubber-soled boots pushed themselves through the opening, quickly followed by the body attached to them, which landed in an unnecessarily silent, darkly-clad crouch.

The figure rose from it quickly, shaking his head. It was just his luck that the new maintenance worker had _done his fucking job_ and screwed the vent door back in. _Just his luck_. Not that it wasn't anything he couldn't handle, but still. If you couldn’t count on bureaucratic inefficiency, what could you count on, really?

He didn’t flip on a flashlight and give any coincidental passersby a glimpse of strange lights coming from the post office. Best case scenario, they'd assume government conspiracy; worst case, they'd call the police. The very dim hint of light, from a distant street lamp and the occasional car, was more than enough.

He removed the key from his pocket; it was a dull brass that didn't glint in the moonlight, and slide almost silently into PO Box #671, owned by Peter Lane, self-employed plumber and general loner. 

Peter had been dead for six months, and the mostly-empty box reflected that. 

There was, however, one utterly average large-scale manilla envelope, tied with red string. A classic, and Clint couldn't help but roll his eyes at the obviousness of it. He tucked it under his arm nonetheless, locked up the box, tucked the key back into his boot, and hunted for the vent cover. He tucked that under his arm along with the envelope, took a couple of steps away from the wall. Bounced up and down on his feet, and then ran up at the wall. The force of his body weight and the rough soles of his boots helped him up, and he slide his way back into the vent. Another five minutes screwing the cover back in place, a quick journey to the building next door, which had significantly fewer security measures, and a brief jaunt to the power grid to switch everything back on, and he was done. 

He darted back to the alley, slipped on a jean jacket on top of his skin-tight dark-brown shirt, and staggered out to the street, looking not at all like the kind of suspicious character who came out of alleys wearing dark clothing, or at least not like the kind of suspicious character you felt like calling the cops on.

He headed back to his hotel; it was a by-the-hour establishment and not the worst place Clint had ever stayed. As a matter of fact, he'd been getting kind of fond of it; no one'd been murdered recently, and the rest of the ambient noise of the place was easy enough to tune out. Then again, Clint knew how to sleep through a lot. 

His room smelled not-so-vaguely of marijuana (not his) and body odor (mostly not his), and the lock stuck behind him, and Sheryl and Rob were having one of their classic knock-down, drag-outs next door. But he sunk onto his bed and shut his eyes for a moment and it was as close as he ever got to nesting. 

_Home sweet home_ , he thought, which meant it was high time he left, but well…he _should_ know better than to even _think_ something like 'one more job, then move on', but it was late, he was pissed, and whatever, who'd know?

He didn’t meant to fall asleep like that, but he did, arms outstretched across the bed, envelope flopping to the floor, still unopened.

*

His room didn't have curtains, just rickety blinds he’d learned the science of but generally avoided. Light oozed through them, waking him up at around six a.m. He sighed; rolled over, searched for the envelope, and pulled himself up to a sitting position before unwinding the red string and pulling out the contents.

Which were:  
• A blank sheet of paper  
• A bunch of rectangles of photo paper, with the brownish hue of the overdeveloped  
• A check for $50,000, unsigned

Someone (some _fucker_ ) had gone to an awful lot of trouble to make the envelope look like it contained the elements Clint required for taking a job. Which was a shame, because Clint hadn't even noticed the feel of it when he tucked it into his jacket last night. 

He looked at the blank sheet of paper; it was not, actually, blank—an address in midtown, in block letters, and Clint rolled his eyes. More cloak and dagger bullshit, which was just what he needed.

He didn't need to take the job. 

He really fucking didn't. 

But he wasn't the type to turn down a paying gig, at least not without finding out more about it. Dawn wasn't 100% trustworthy, but as a referral, she'd never steered Clint wrong before. 

He sighed. 

There was no time listed on the sheet, but he wasn't going to let that deter him; it was still early, it'd take him about an hour to get there, at least another hour to stake the place out, and then, hopefully, figuring out the client wouldn't take long. 

He got his things together; his best 'just an average joe' jeans and black t-shirt, a decent leather jacket (decent enough that he wouldn't stick out entirely in the neighborhood, but not too nice to make people think they should be paying attention to him). A couple of knives and a gun, and the contents of the envelope tucked in an inside pocket, and he was ready to go.

*

It was an apartment building, with a doorman; unsurprising, given the neighborhood. There was a cafe across the street, too expensive for Clint to bother with normally, but he had a feeling that if he stopped in, it might be worth his while.

The hostess, who looked more like she should be a desk girl at one of the fine arts galleries that Clint didn't exactly frequent but knew about both by reputation and for professional interest, seemed reluctant to seat him, no matter how charming a smile he gave. At least she was until the phone rang, which another very well-dressed woman (older, with curly hair and big gold earrings) answered; the conversation was very quick, a lot of 'yes, ma'am' and 'immediately's, and Clint was given a table with a view of the building, just as he'd expected. 

He didn't wait long; he didn't even get to order (he'd been planning to get the most expensive thing on the menu, not that he'd even been given a chance to find out what it was), when a grimacing mountain of a man in a suit that basically screamed "Muscle for Hire" loomed over him. 

Clint blinked up at him, all innocence; the man glared down, and seemed more annoyed by Clint's grin than the hostess had been. Clint, obviously, decided to smile at him as much as possible.

"Come with me," said the mountain, and Clint fluttered his eyelashes. 

"Buy me a drink first, dude," he said, and watched carefully: he didn't fully expected the man to lunge and grab him, but he didn't counted it out entirely either. Mr. Mountain just rolled his eyes, but shifted just enough that Clint could see that he was carrying. Not that it'd really make a difference, Clint probably could've killed him with the fork (one of the many forks) in front of him before the guy so much as unbuttoned his jacket, but there was only so much screwing around Clint felt the need to do at the moment. "Fine," he said, waving his hands theatrically. "Take me to your leader."

The man reached for his arm as Clint rose; Clint grabbed his wrist and had it up around his back without even thinking about it, really. He let go just as quickly, and gave the guy more of a smirk than anything. "Sorry about that," he said, cloying and insincere; the guy just turned and walked off, crossing the street, and Clint realized he'd won that round, because now Clint had to be the one to chase after him like a puppy.

_Fuck it_ , Clint figured, and went after him, hands in his pocket and shit-eating grin on his face. Mr. Mountain opened the door for him; Clint started to hum. They got to the elevator, and Clint added a bit of whistling to his repertoire. By the time they got to the twentieth floor (penthouse, not that Clint was surprised), the guy's suit looked like it was about to burst from the tension in his shoulders. 

The elevator opened right into the apartment, which was sparingly furnished in that classy New York way that meant a lot of white walls and sharp, shiny furniture.

It seemed at odds with the woman he saw sitting primly on a white leather armchair, but who was he to say. Mr. Mountain had apparently dematerialized behind him, and it was the woman, who looked to be about fifty (or a rich sixty, which he figured was more likely), that waved him closer and signaled to the sleek black couch.

"Please sit," she said, in a clipped, formal accent; not foreign, but not quite local either. She had dark hair and sharp brown eyes, and her make-up was impeccable. She was wearing a black pantsuit and red shoes. Overall, it was an impressive picture, but then, it was meant to be. "You must be Hawkeye."

"That's right," Clint said. "And you are?"

"You can call me Mrs. Marshall." She waited, as if expecting him to do something; he looked back at her, unconcerned. She seemed momentarily thrown (her eyes shifted to the right, nervous or impatient), but extended her hand anyway. Clint shook it. Her palm was papery and dry, but her grip was strong. 

"What can I do for you. Ma'am."

She sighed, and looked down at the glass table before her. "I apologize. It's just such an unpleasant business." 

"Murder for hire tends to be," he said, and she stared, as if startled by his bluntness. "No reason to sugar-coat it."

"Of course. Well. You came highly recommended, though I understand this is not…this is not your usual fare?"

"Couldn't say, ma'am," because she hadn't told him _anything_ yet, though he would admit most of his clients did not meet him in their own apartments and wring their hands over what they were asking him to do. 

She sighed again, and pulled out a photograph from the slim purse beside her, and handed it to him. "It's about my grand-daughter. Harriet." 

The image was of a teenaged girl, with thick brown hair, in a riding outfit; she had green eyes, and was smiling, broad but forced.

"She was a good girl. Very bright, very eager to…move on, live her own life. I may have been overprotective; her father had died so young, and her mother was…" Ms. Marshall's mouth twisted, smirking and ugly, for a moment, before settling itself. "A disaster. So I did my best, you know, a good education. A solid home. High expectations. You understand."

"Uh-huh," said Clint, who had experienced none of the above, and did not. 

"Well. There was a man, you know. A substitute teacher at her school, she said. I thought nothing of it at first; a schoolgirl crush was hardly _my_ business. But I soon became suspicious. She began to pull away from me, became unreachable in the afternoons. So I had her followed. And my investigator found this." She handed him another photograph; the girl was embracing a man with dark hair, her face tucked into his neck, his hand patting the back of her head, the other on the small of her back. 

It was, actually, rather chaste, and almost fatherly. He glanced up at Ms. Marshall. 

"I confronted her about it. We argued; she ran off, and I thought it'd do her good to let her calm down, but…" She looked as if she expected Clint to finish the sentence; he had a feeling he knew where it would've gone, but he kept his mouth shut. "They didn't find a body. For weeks, there was nothing. And then they found her car, by the river, seats soaked in blood."

"Hers?"

"Of course," Ms. Marshall said, her mouth pinched. 

"And you suspect this man?" Clint pointed at the figure.

"Phil Coulson," she said. "That is his real name. He disappeared from the school days after Harriet."

"And you didn't go to the police because…?"

She frowned. "We did. We were told there was no evidence linking the two. And then we discovered he was a federal agent of some kind. Clearly he’d interfered, taken care of the evidence somehow, I—"

"I understand," Clint said. "Why was he investigating you?"

"I beg your pardon?"

"You mentioned his real name. He must've given another one at the school, which means he was undercover. He got close to your granddaughter for a reason. What was it?"

Ms. Marshall narrowed her eyes at him. "Is it relevant?"

"It might be."

"My husband ran a shipping business. Exports and imports. He did well; provided for me, for our children. He was a good man. But people are so _suspicious_. They don't believe a man like that could make as much money as he did. So yes, perhaps, there was an _investigation_. But my granddaughter was not a target."

_No_ , Clint thought. _She was a witness._

"What else can you tell me about this guy?" he said, and Ms. Marshall pulled out a folder from her purse. 

"Here," she said. "This should give you what you need."

There were more photographs (Philip J. Coulson was about ten years older than him, square-jawed and serious looking, with sharp blue eyes; his apartment was in Manhattan; his car was a government-issue black sedan with New York plates), and what appeared to be a report detailing an upcoming mission in Ecuador, of all places. It included hotel plans and the location for a meeting with an informant. "Where'd you get all this?" 

"I have my sources."

"Your sources could take care of him just as easily as I could."

She shook her head. "He's a smart man, and paranoid. We need an outsider."

_We_ , Clint noticed. He tapped his fingers restlessly at the papers in front of him. "We should talk price."

"Yes, of course," Ms. Marshall slipped a pen out of her bag. "The $50,000 upfront—"

"Is not going to be nearly enough."

"Excuse me?"

"For this guy? A paranoid government agent with international contacts?" Clint laughed. "I'm gonna need an exit strategy in place. You're gonna have to give me all the money upfront."

"I'm not sure that's going to work."

"Then best of luck to you, lady. 'cause I'm not doing this for less than a quarter million, in cash, up front."

She raised her eyebrows, and her eyeline flickered back to the corner: Clint knew Mr. Mountain had probably re-appeared, but he didn't give a shit. A few more moments of tense staring, and he was going to get up and just leave, but before he could she snapped her fingers and suddenly there was a muted black briefcase on the coffee table in front of him. In it was—

"Half a million," she said, cool as a cucumber, and Clint, who was already half-convinced this was going to be nothing but bad news, was now 100% sure. 

"Well," he said, holding out his hand. "Pleasure doing business with you."


	2. Chapter 2

Agent Philip J. Coulson was actually boring as hell.

He ordered take-out pretty much every night, and had only black coffee and toast for breakfast.

He went to work, he came home late, he locked up his apartment with more security levels than Clint had seen even the most paranoid of warlords use. He watched terrible television shows. He spent a lot of time on his computer, which Clint would normally find suspicious but from the look of it, just seemed to be more work. Clint followed him in the mornings, sometimes, but he never went anywhere but the same nondescript building near Times Square, and never left it earlier than seven p.m. 

One night, a Friday from what Clint could tell, though days of the week tend to blur when watching a guy who worked weekends too, Coulson'd been about two hours later than usual. 

Clint had felt strangely unsettled by the change of his routine, and strangely something else when he saw Coulson approach his building with a tall, blond, hunk of a guy in tow. Blondie got a handshake at the door, and Clint was willing to chalk the whole thing up as the aftermath courtesy following a late dinner/work meeting, except for the fact that the man used his grip on Coulson's hand to reel him into a kiss. Clint couldn't tell if Coulson kissed back: his hands were pressed to Blondie's chest, maybe like he was feeling him up, maybe like he was trying to push him back or at least keep him at a distance. The kiss ended; Coulson's expression was momentarily unreadable, but he gave a brisk nod and went inside. Blondie, who clearly wasn't used to being turned down, looked pretty pissed about it. He kicked a trashcan hard, then scowled as he limped away. Clint laughed about it the rest of the night.

But otherwise, Coulson didn't seem to have much of a social life. Sometimes he talked to his neighbors; he helped the grumpy old guy two floors below him change a lightbulb, chased down a wriggly little sausage dog for the bunch of kids across the hall, opened the door for a tired young woman pushing a stroller. Then he went up to his tiny one-bedroom apartment filled with average, probably second hand, furniture, and settled in for the night. 

Yeah. The guy was a super-boring boy-scout, basically. 

The only mildly suspicious thing about him was the phone calls: Coulson seemed worried each time the phone rang, and usually it was nothing, at least from what Clint could glean from Coulson's side of the conversations. 

It was after the first of those calls that Clint sat back, frowned to himself, and started dismantling his rifle. He wasn't the type of guy who hated being right (being right was awesome), but he was smart enough to know things were about to go to hell, and it was all down to Agent Philip J. Coulson.

*

Clint was not entirely surprised to realize that he and Coulson were on the same flight to South America: it was the kind of unsubtle approach the entire enterprise had run on. The ticket had been bought for him, slipped under the door of the motel room he'd told Marshall he was staying at, which he only checked out every other day. He should have refused it, but he figured it might give him a better shot at the man than approaching him cold would.

He was a little surprised to find Coulson in steerage with him, though; he didn't know why he figured SHIELD would've sprung for business at the least. 

Coulson was several rows back, and Clint couldn't even watch him from that angle. He got up to use the bathroom once; Coulson was seemingly asleep in his seat when he did, forehead braced on the window. Clint had wondered if he'd look different from up close than he had from across the street and several feet down; he did and he didn't, face familiar, same basic suit as always, hair perfectly in place, and Clint had even seen him with his tie off before. But there were lines at the corners of his eyes that even Clint's eyesight hadn't been able to spot from that far away, and freckles, which Clint found especially jarring, though he couldn't say why. 

Clint walked on, and didn't even let himself glance over on the walk back to his seat. 

It was because of his determination to keep his eyes up and ahead that he caught sight of a familiar broad back and buzzcut up in business. 

_Shit_ , he thought to himself, ducking into his seat to avoid being seen by Mr. Mountain, though it seemed pointless, because obviously he knew Clint was on the plane. That was _why_ he was on the plane, and it closed off certain possibilities Clint had still been thinking through.

Also, the fucker was in business class, which was just such a dick move, even from someone he knew was trying to screw him over for sure.

Clint couldn't let himself be too pissed about that, though. He was down to Plan F, and Plan F fucking _sucked_. He hazarded a glance back at Coulson who, of course, just _happened_ to be looking in his direction. His eyes were blue, which Clint knew in a hazy background kind of way, but having them focused on you was an entirely different story. He looked away automatically, turned back around, and felt the man's gaze on the back of his neck for a few tense seconds before he must have lost interest or fallen back asleep.

 _Fuck_. Clint thought. He was _so screwed_.

*

The flight was seven hours long. He spent a solid four of them trying not to look as angry and off balance as he felt, and the minute the wheels hit the tarmac, he wanted to spring up, run across the cabin, and get the hell off the plane, flight attendants be damned, but he knew that would call too much attention to himself and he couldn't afford that right now.

Instead, he sat tight, and waited till the plane rolled to a halt, then waited some more, as most of the other passengers started filing out amidst grumbles about jet lag and the time difference. He saw Coulson walk by on his right; Clint may have been imagining it, but he thought the man hesitated a moment at the dividing line between business and economy seating. He didn't turn around, though, and Clint thanked god for that. Not because he thought god would particularly care, but just for the principle of the thing: he was going to need all the allies he could get.

Once the plane was almost entirely empty, he rose, a little slow like maybe he was stiff and half asleep; he'd only brought one overnight bag (his rifle and attendant tools of the trade had been shipped ahead of him; he didn't trust Marshall for much but figured she'd at least have an interest in getting it to Guayaquil properly), which he hoisted over his shoulder and stumbled out of the plane with. There were families everywhere, the occasional man and woman in a suit, but no one else he might know, who might know him. Coulson and Mr. Mountain were nowhere in sight, which didn't necessarily mean much, at least in Coulson's case.

He put on his game face and swaggered through the airport. At customs and immigration, he went right up to a greasy looking guy with the special kind of smile that no honest man would have after working an eight-hour shift at an immigration terminal: Clint figured he had a couple of newly acquired dollar bills in his pocket, along with the number to an untraceable cell. The guy's eyes sparkled with recognition at the sight of Clint and his passport, and grunted much too convincingly when Clint made it clear he nothing to declare but the fact that he was there for pleasure, and not business.

*

He landed in a hotel not far from the cafe where Coulson was set to be that afternoon. It wouldn’t have been his preference, but he was still trying to go along with the instructions he'd been given. If he was being watched, and he knew he was, any deviations before the right time would set the whole thing spiraling out of control, and while Clint could take care of himself, he wasn't sure Coulson, paranoid and smart as he supposedly was, would be able to do the same without any kind of warning.

So he did what he had to do. Examined his rifle and the provided ammo; swung himself out of his window and onto the roof, and made a trek out to building overlooking the alley behind the cafe. Wasn't spotted, though he wasn't trying very hard to avoid detection. Passive-aggressively, he hoped that word of a prowling dark figure would get back to Coulson and make him cancel the meet, or at least re-locate it somewhere out of Clint's line of sight. Clint could always get to him later.

But no, when he returned about three hours after night had fallen, he spotted Coulson's contact, a nervous red-herring of a guy with thick glasses and curly dark hair, waiting at the far left table. The roar of a nightclub across the plaza seemed to be bothering him; he rubbed his temples like he had a headache, and Clint felt an unusual amount of empathy for the guy. As far as Clint knew, he was for real, willing to blow the whistle on some kind of sketchy chemical waste disposal processes in a local factory. Why that granted him an audience with Agent Phil Coulson of SHIELD, Clint hadn't fully figured out. But the guy didn't deserve to be hurt either, and when Clint spotted Mr. Mountain skulking around a shuttered storefront across the street (where he thankfully did not have a great view of the alley), Clint grit his teeth and debated just shooting him there and then. Decided to wait, for no other reason than it was too late to get to Coulson any other way, and a man to drop dead in the middle of a public square with a bullet in his head would cause enough of a commotion for the meet to be postponed, or even canceled. Clint wasn't sure when else he'd get a shot at the guy. 

As predicted, Coulson showed up about fifteen minutes after Nervous Ned, strolling down the dark alley like a tourist who might be lost but wasn't too concerned about it, and was quite happily taking in the local color. The neighborhood was nice and central enough that he could get away with it. 

Even at his casual, thoughtful pace it didn't take him long to spot Clint, and his rifle, and, Clint hoped, the way his hands were obviously nowhere near the trigger. Coulson stared up at him, head cocked a little, as if confused, but just for a second before his hand went to his holster; Clint fired, hoping that the shot piercing the brick several feet away from Coulson's head would do trick. 

Or at least.

That was the plan.

He'd thought he'd pulled the trigger, he'd heard the shot, even, had been thinking several seconds ahead of it, of how Coulson might react, but then he realized his view was no longer of Coulson at the end of the alley. It was shifting, swirling darkness, as something knocked him off his feet and to the dusty rooftop. He didn't have the time to think of anything but _what the fuck_ before everything went black.


	3. Chapter 3

It was very, very dark and very, very cold, and Clint was sure he was very, very dead. He could feel a bed beneath him, or at least something soft, and a hand on his forehead, and any other time, he'd be up and grabbing the wrist and breaking the bone and out of there before its owner even noticed, but he couldn't, _couldn't_ so much as move. 

And he didn't hate it. Didn't have it in him to hate it. 

He felt treacherously, foolishly safe, as a hand brushed back his sweaty, soaked hair. 

Someone was talking. Someone was talking softly, whispering, not so much trying not to be heard but at the very least trying not to wake him, but he could _hear_ them, hear the words.

"Agent Phil Coulson. Level Five. Alpha–Seven–Tango–Eight—"

He surged up, smacked the phone out of the hand that wasn't stroking his forehead and fell off the bed, taking Agent Phil Coulson with him and rolling until his steady, firm body was pinned beneath his own, which was much less so at the moment. 

He could feel himself shaking as he looked down; Agent Phil Coulson looked up at him, entirely unstartled. 

" _Don't_." He heard himself say, even as the change in position made his ears ring. " _Fucking don't._ "

"Don't what?" even his _voice_ was cool, unhurried but soft.

"How'd—how do you think—I _knew where you were going to be_. How do you fucking think I knew that—" he was going to throw up, and it was rude to do that, in someone's face, even someone he was supposed to—oh _fuck_ , he was supposed…he rolled off. " _Fuck_."

"Okay. I'm going to need a few more words here…" he looked expectantly at Clint, hoping for…what? He wasn't sure, his head a still spinning, though the urge to vomit had somewhat subsided. "Kid?" he offered, and Clint couldn't help it, he made a face. "Well you're going to have to give me something else, then," Agent Phil Coulson snapped, and the sharp flare of anger was kind of comforting, actually.

It came and went real quick, though; a moment later he was sitting next to Clint, looking down at him with a strangely blank expression. He moved slow, lifting his hand where Clint could see it. Toward his neck, but Clint, _dammit_ , Clint flinched. Obviously, hard enough to send his hip screaming, and the man's hand dropped to Clint’s wrist, and his eyes dropped to the subtle but pricey watch on his own. _Ah_ , Clint thought, and relaxed, as much as he could. It'd be pointless to take his pulse before brutally murdering him; at most the guy was preparing to mess with him a little, and give him a few minutes of stillness, and he could still take out some random SHIELD agent with too many enemies, no matter how good he was.

The man frowned, but gave his wrist a little squeeze before he let go. "Do you remember what happened?" Agent Phil Coulson asked him, and as much as he wanted to scoff and roll his eyes, he couldn't. Agent Phil Coulson seemed to know it, and shook his head. "You got shot. Your vest caught it, but the force knocked you over and you were out cold when I came up to find you. You've got one hell of a bruise, but I don't think anything's broken. I did what I could in the field, but my communicator's jammed—you wouldn't happen to know anything about that, right?—" he rode straight on without Clint having to say anything. "So I brought you here."

"Where's here?"

"Safe house." In the tone that signaled that was all he was going to get, meaning Clint would either be leaving while unconscious or not at all. 

"I 'got shot'?" he said, after a moment. "Did _you_ shoot me?" 

Coulson gave him a pinched look. "You're smarter than that."

Clint wanted to growl, _how the fuck would you know?_ but he didn't. He shut his eyes, and thought about the scene, as far as he remembered it: Coulson standing in the alley below him, hand on his holster but not drawing his gun, and then the sharp crack of something high-caliber to his left. About level with the rooftop, actually, and how had he _missed_ that, how could he—

" _Relax_ ," Coulson said, in probably the least soothing voice possible, and then he sighed. "Relax." It was better then. "I don't know who it was. They were gone by the time I got to you."

"Why did you—why did you come get me?"

"You were holding a rifle on me. I wanted to see if you were alive and find out why. And you were, but you were—" Coulson paused, and looked away, and when he looked back there was something hard in his eyes. "You're going to tell me what this was about."

"The hell I am," he said, automatically, and then he took a moment to think about it. Marshall, or whoever the fuck had _actually_ hired him, wanted him dead or at least shot. And all 'cause he didn't—couldn't—take the shot. _Fuck it_. He didn't owe them shit. 

Coulson was smirking like he knew the exact thought process he was going through. "I thought so."

"Asshole," Clint said, and that made Coulson smile wider, actually. Clint was absolutely not charmed by it. "Harriet Marshall."

"Who?" Coulson said, like he genuinely had no idea; it wasn't even a poker face so much as it was the perfect expression of justifiable confusion. He was good, better than Clint had expected. 

"Someone's looking for her. I know she's not dead. Seeing as I didn't kill you, I'm guessin' they'll be sending someone else to do it soon enough."

"Why didn't you?"

"Huh?"

"You definitely had the shot. I'm just wondering why you didn't take it." 

"Yeah." He swallowed. "I don't like being jerked around."

"Okay."

"They told me you—" he tried to sit up; it didn't go terrible, though he made the mistake of grabbing the bed sheet for support and having it slip through his fingers. "You'd done something to her. But it seemed fishy to me, right from the start. Then I…well, I was watching you the past coupla weeks…" he looked at Coulson; the man seemed not as pissed at being surveilled as he maybe should've been, or like he'd had some time to come around to the fact, which was actually pretty likely. It wasn't like he'd done anything entirely awful in the meantime, at least. "You took a couple of calls."

"Encrypted ones."

Clint shrugged.

"You'll have to tell me how you managed that," but again, less pissed and more curious, almost amused. "So you didn't think I deserved to die over what I did. Lucky me."

"Lucky you," Clint said. "Don't know who it was, by the way."

"Hm?"

"Lady who's paying me. Don't know who she was. She said she was Harriet's grandmother—"

"She probably was." Coulson sighed, and stood up. Looked down, and seemed to be thinking for a moment, before offering Clint a hand. Clint was reluctant to take it, but he was still shaky enough that he felt like he had to in order to get off the floor. 

Coulson's grip was firm, and warm, and brief as he guided him back onto the bed. Once Clint was sitting, basically upright, he stepped back and turned around, riffling through some papers on a small desk by the window. The curtains were drawn shut, but Clint could see enough light coming through them to realize it was early morning; at least he hadn't been out that long. 

"Harriet is set to testify against her family," Coulson said, turning around. He was holding a gun, but it wasn’t loaded; no way Clint was meant to miss that. "Her grandmother runs the business."

"Shipping?"

Coulson smirked. "Actually, yeah. Guns, drugs, the works. Her sons do most of the dirty work, all except for Harriet's father—"

"Who died?"

"Who was murdered. Along with Harriet's mother. For trying to do the same thing Harriet's going to do."

"You think they're aiming to kill her?"

"I think it's likely." 

"Why would you tell me all this?"

Coulson shrugged. "I'm choosing to trust you." 

"That's a real bad idea, Coulson."

"Probably," Coulson said, and clicked the magazine into place. He was aiming the gun down at the floor, though, and Clint wondered what game he was playing. He looked back up into Coulson's face. 

"Wait. Marshall."

"What about her?"

"She said Harriet's been gone for two years. That's a long time to wait for a trial." Coulson sighed, and flipped the desk chair around so it faced Clint. When he sat, they were parallel to each other; he propped his elbows on his knees, and held the gun (safety still on) in front of him. Clint cocked his head toward it. "You think I'm dangerous?"

"Yes," Coulson said, unabashedly. Yeah, he was good. "We've been having trouble finding Ms. Marshall. Any time we get close, she goes to ground, very successfully. Which is why, incidentally, I'm glad to be talking to you."

"And here I thought it was 'cause of my sparkling personality." 

"That too," Coulson said, with a bit of a smirk. "But you're more of a lead than we've gotten in ages."

"I don't know much more than you do."

"You don't know what I know." 

Well, that was true. But it didn't especially incline Clint toward being honest. The rescue, though, and current lack of smacking him around or tying him up…well, Clint could give a little. Especially since he was pretty well screwed no matter what.

"What do you want to know?"

Coulson smiled a little, a tight, private, g-man smile. "How did she find you?"

Clint hesitated. Dawn might have gotten him into this mess, but she wasn't the type to screw Clint over, not like this. He wasn't sure if he wanted to bring SHIELD, or at the very least Agent Phil Coulson, down on her. 

Coulson just kept watching him, utterly pleasant and not at all impatient. Clint sighed. "It's a long story."

"Well, Mr—" he waited, but Clint was determined not to give him anything more than necessary. "Mr. Professional Hitman, whom I should really have turned over to the authorities by now," Coulson said, with a hint of a significantly more unpleasant smirk. "We don't exactly have a lot of time."

Clint sighed again. Dawn was just going to have to disappear before they got to her. He'd get word somehow, before Coulson got back to New York.

"Friend of mine gave me the reference, don't know how Marshall found her."

"Who?"

"Her name is Dawn. I've worked with her before, she’s usually solid."

"What does Dawn do?"

"Computers. Mostly hacking. She doesn't hurt people."

"You trust her." Clint shrugged, and Coulson shook his head. "How did she say she knew Ms. Marshall?"

"She didn't. She said she'd heard Marshall was looking for someone with my particular skill set, someone who'd get the job done quick and clean."

"And that's you?" 

"Yeah."

"What is your skill set?"

Clint squirmed without knowing why. "Is that relevant?"

"It is to me," Coulson said, even more pleasantly. Excessively pleasant, but the gun was suddenly very, very obvious. Theoretically, if Coulson was an average government spook, Clint thought he had about a 95% chance of getting it out of his hands before it could do him any damage.

There was, however, much more than a 95% chance that Coulson was _not_ an average government spook, and Clint did not love his chances.

"I don't miss." 

"Okay," Coulson said, as if he believed it. "What else?"

"I'm thorough. I clean up my messes." _I'm careful. I don't create collateral damage. I try to make it painless, even when they don't deserve it._ The less Coulson knew about that the better, though. "I'm selective."

"That's a skill?"

"It's relevant here."

"Why?"

"If you'd've done what she said you did, I'd have killed you, no question."

"Well," Coulson said, leaning back a little. The gun was pointed back at the floor. "Good thing you're thorough." He smiled at Clint, and Clint, traitorously, stupidly, found himself smiling back. "How does someone get in touch with you?"

"You askin' for my number, Philip?"

"I'd prefer Agent Coulson." 

"Oh yeah?"

"I'm usually not on first-name basis with people who try to kill me."

"Lotta people try to kill you, Agent Coulson?"

"You'd be surprised."

"Nah, you seem like the kinda guy who makes all the right kind of enemies, y'know?" 

"You're being evasive."

"Can you blame me?"

Coulson laughed. Actually laughed, and stood up, and walked over to him. Within range, and Clint knew Coulson knew it, knew that Coulson knew he knew it. Because if Clint could reach out and snap Coulson's neck, it'd be just as easy for Coulson to have him on the ground and bleeding out within seconds. "No. But, and I realize you have no reason to believe this, I'm actually trying to help you out."

"You're right.”

“I am?”

“I have no reason to believe that." 

Coulson put the gun down next to him, and leaned over. "I want to bring you in."

Clint looked up at him. His blue eyes were clear and calm, and kind. But again, he was _very_ good. "To SHIELD?"

"To SHIELD. I can get you a deal. You can help us take down the Marshalls."

"One out of three," Clint said, and Coulson blinked. 

"Excuse me?"

"I'm not coming to SHIELD. I don't want a deal. But I'll help you take down the Marshalls."

"Because you don't like getting screwed."

Clint chuckled. "Yeah. And 'cause chances are, neither do they. They know I didn't kill you, and they'll be after the both of us."

"Which is why I'd rather bring SHIELD in."

"You sure about that?"

Coulson looked at him, then away. "We've investigated the possibly of a mole."

"You lead the investigation?"

"No. But I trust my people. More than I trust the guy hired to kill me, for instance."

"Trust my intel, then. Trust the fact that I knew where you were going to be, because someone _told_ me where you were going to be. And I _know_ you don't think it's a coincidence Marshall disappears the minute you get close to her."

"You know a lot about me."

"I've been watchin' you for two weeks."

"From where?"

"Trade secret." 

Coulson shook his head, but seemed content to let it lie. Clint grinned, and stuck out his hand. 

"We got a deal here, Coulson?"

Coulson shook his hand, but he was still frowning. "This isn't going to work."

"Why not?"

"I generally work with a team. And you...don't seem like the type to work with a partner."

"Just stay out of my way, and we'll be fine." 

Coulson rolled his eyes, and let go of his hand. "What should I call you?"

"Call me anything you want, just as long as you don't call me late for dinner." Coulson sighed, and Clint realized he might be pushing the folksy farm boy thing a little too hard. "Hawk," he said. "You can call me Hawk."

"Hawk," Coulson said, his nose scrunching up in a way that indicated he found the name distasteful. Well, fuck him. 

"I need to get my gear."

"Is that a good idea?" Coulson's tone indicated just what he thought of it, as an idea, but Clint didn't give a fuck. 

"No. But I got stuff in there we can use, stuff we're gonna need, so if you've got a better one—"

"I could go."

"Yeah, 'cause it's not like someone's lookin' to kill you, right?"

Coulson made a smug, smirky face at him. "It'll take them time hire someone else of your caliber, won't it?"

"Of my caliber? Sure. But they're not gonna go that way."

"No?"

"Coulson, there's gonna be an all-out bounty hunt on the two of us. Every hitman and woman in the area's gonna know about us within the hour, probably have photos out too."

"Less than that." Coulson said, and Clint glanced at him.

"Huh?"

"You were out for a while. They're probably already—"

"Shit. Okay, well, get anything you think you're gonna need, and let's get out of here. You got money?"

"I've got money," Coulson said, cool and significant in some way Clint wasn't in the mood to try and parse. He just gave Coulson a nod.

"Good. We're gonna need a car, and I'll just have to swing by and around the back of my hotel." 

He expected a little bit of pushback from him on that, but Coulson just nodded and went to the closet (turning his back on Clint in the process; Clint tried not to buy into it as a gesture. Was he really that easy to read?). 

Coulson turned back around; he had a black duffle slung over one shoulder, and a large, black fabric bag, the kind Clint vaguely associated fancy department stores draped over one arm. He had to assume, based on Coulson's usual attire, that it was a fresh suit, which: "Are you serious?"

Coulson shrugged. "Let's go," he said, and opened the door for him.


	4. Chapter 4

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Felonies are committed, conversations are had, and Phil makes a new friend.

Turned out, they'd been in a basically average apartment building that may have been close to the cafe, if the similar architecture style and stone color were anything to go on. It probably wasn't.

He started looking for a car to break into without even thinking to tell Coulson that's what he was doing; he glanced around the quiet street, past the average, middle-class cars, to Coulson opening the door to a dusty, once-white Toyota. 

"We can't use that."

"Why not?" Coulson said, conversationally, as he popped the trunk and went around to stash what he'd been carrying in it. 

"'cause it's traceable."

"It's not mine." Coulson said, walking around to the passenger's side door and slipping in. 

"Whose is it then?"

Coulson gave a cursory look to the glove compartment. "No idea," he said, and then smiled as he apparently found something. He held out a set of keys; they were attached to a burnished wood keychain, a nicer one than the car probably merited. "Someone who really should know better, clearly."

"What, it was just open?" 

Coulson shrugged. Clint wasn't sure he should buy the happy coincidence act, but time was running and he didn't have any other better ideas, so he went with it. At least Coulson was going to let him drive; though it did make sense, seeing as Clint was the one who wanted to get to the hotel room and knew where it was.

"You got a map?" Coulson held one out; Clint gave it a cursory glance, caught sight of the cross-streets, and slipped the key into the ignition. The car groaned to a start, which Clint could've done without, but there was no half-asleep devoted car owner rushing down the stairs when he started to drive, so he figured they could hold on to it for a while at least. 

It was about a fifteen-minute drive; at around minute ten, he caught Coulson looking at him with undisguised interest. 

"What?" he said, not wanting to give him the satisfaction, but also not wanting to have yet another thing hanging over him. 

"You've got a good memory," is all Coulson said, and Clint looked away. They reached a stoplight; he tapped his fingers nervously at the steering wheel. He went to turn on the radio, and found that there was a hole in the dash where it would've been.

"They tend to get stolen," Coulson said, and Clint looked at him. "Radios. People don't leave them in the car."

"People'd take the radio and not the car?"

"A car's harder to sell, I guess."

"Huh." The light changed, and Clint drove on. "Listen. I should've told you this before. The work I do? You don't exactly get employee of the month awards. But there's a ranking. And I've been number two for a long time, long time for what it is I do, anyway. People're looking to move up. "

"I thought you didn't miss." 

"Yeah?"

"I'd think that'd make you number one."

He snorted. "Yeah. Cause the thing is, I _don't_ miss, so I get to choose where I aim. Person like me can't be choosy unless you've got something to back it up, y'know?"

"And number one?"

"She's not as selective as me. But she's a hell of a lot harder to…reach."

Coulson looked like he was about to ask another question, but he seemed to catch on that Clint wouldn't answer anything else. "Well, that's one less person after us."

Clint laughed. "Man, you think this is an honor among thieves situation? It's not. Anyone and everyone'll be after us now, so we better deal with that, too."

"What do you suggest we do?"

"Get out of Ecuador, fast as we can. You're going to need papers—"

"I have a passport."

"SHIELD ID isn't going to cut it, Coulson. Hell, anything leading back to your real identity isn't going to cut it. But I got a spare, we just need to get a picture of you, I can make that work."

"Let me guess, you're a master forger, too?"

Clint shrugged; master he wasn't, but something good enough to get him past a sleep-deprived border guard? No problem. Coulson shook his head and seemed amused at something, but Clint didn't feel the urge to try and puzzle it out. "We're gonna need firepower before we get back to the States, so we'll have to stop off for that. Then, hell, Coulson, I don't know. This seems like more your area."

Coulson sighed. "I have some contacts in Peru. We can work from there."

"Peru?"

"It's easier to go south than north right now. Less security on the borders."

"If you say so," Clint made sure to sound doubtful, though he knew Coulson was probably right. 

"Speaking of things we've got to keep in mind…" Coulson started, and Clint looked back over at him. "SHIELD is going to assume I've gone rogue."

There was a tightness to Coulson's tone that Clint found himself understanding: the man ate, breathed, and, if Clint had judged Blondie correctly, fucked his job. He didn't have much else to fall back on. 

"I'm sorry about that," Clint said, meaning it, but Coulson just blinked at him. Wasn't looking for sympathy, then.

"I just mean, they'll probably be after us too. I'm too high up to be let go without some sort of…"

"Exit interview?"

Coulson laughed at that, a low, chuckling laugh that made Clint want to join him. He allowed himself a smile as Coulson said, "Something like that."

*

Clint pulled over about three blocks from the hotel; the street was quiet, but the sun was on its way up, and he wasn't going to take any chances. He pressed his finger to his lips; Coulson nodded, and started getting out of the car, which was _so_ not part of the plan. Clint rushed around to grab him by the arm; Coulson twisted out of his grasp and had him up against the car too fast for Clint to do anything about it. He looked up at Coulson, who looked down at him, not even pissed, just kind of surprised and maybe hurt, though Clint wasn't going to worry about that now.

"Don't need you there holding my hand, Coulson," Clint said, and Coulson, seeming to realize how close they still were, and decided that Clint wasn't going to make a late bid on his life after all, took a step back.

"Who said anything about handholding?" 

"I don't need backup, is what I mean. I got this." Coulson gave him a doubtful look, but Clint just grinned at him and took a running start, jumped up onto some trashcans, and scrambled up onto the roof of the cream-colored building. "Stay here, okay? Be back in ten. At most."

"Hawk—"

"I promise," he said, though Coulson had absolute no reason to trust that, or to not run himself, the minute Clint was out of sight. The guy nodded anyway, and Clint shot him a quick salute before making the trek over. 

He was more careful this time: stuck to the shadows, didn't move too quick, made sure he looked where he was going and didn't set any of the ceramic tiles clattering or disturb the spiky metallic tree things so many of the roofs seemed to have. He thought he did a pretty good job of it; no one was shooting at him yet, which was always a good sign.

Getting into his room was easy as pie: there were sturdy wrought-iron railings around the tiny balconies of all the rooms facing east, and it was a matter of hopping one from the other on his way down to the fifth floor, which was his. He hadn't thought to leave his window open (which he should've), but the lock was a breeze to pick. Clint almost had it open when he felt the prickling on the back of his neck that meant shit was about to go down.

Sure enough, he'd only just managed to duck before the glass door into his room exploded. He ran inside, pushing past the flapping curtains, and focused: kept to the wall, grabbed his backpack out of the closet, and waited. There was another shot, but the curtain was probably making it hard for whoever it was to see him, a problem which was unfortunately mutual, though not his biggest concern at the moment. He could hear, over the screams next door, the sounds of footsteps running _toward_ the room being shot up, and not away from it. Clint waited as they got closer, dropped almost to the floor, and eased the closet door open.

The shooting stopped. The footsteps did as well, and then the door banged open and Clint was swinging the closet door forward as hard and as fast as he could. It smacked the guy coming through right across the face, enough that he stumbled, and Clint surged up, grabbed his wrist, and threw him to the ground. Grabbed his gun for good measure, and heard someone coming up behind him, to the left. He shifted to the right; the guy was fast, adjusted his path, but Clint was faster and kicked his legs out from under him, grabbed his arm, and pushed his head into the wall. He went limp and Clint let him drop. 

"Hawk." 

He looked up; it was Coulson, holding a gun on him, except not, obviously, and he hit the ground. Coulson fired (cool as anything, great stance, good aim, if the loud thump behind him was anything to on). Clint stared at him, and Coulson blinked, before lowering his gun and waving Clint up. "Come on. We've got to go."

"Oh, you think?" he said, scrambling up; Coulson grabbed his arm to steady him and kept hold as they sprinted down the corridor together. 

"You get what you needed?" 

"What if I said no?"

"Oh, well, obviously I'll stay here—" Coulson pushed open the door to what ended up being the stairwell. "And wait while you go back for it."

"Gee, thanks," Clint said, hustling down the stairs as fast as he could; he could hear Coulson coming down behind him, slower, as if checking to make sure they weren't being followed. He heard the door a couple of floors below them open and stopped; Coulson's back pressed against his shoulder for a moment, and then he grabbed Clint's arm. Clint half turned; brought his fingers to his lips again, and then nodded toward downstairs. Coulson got it, and drew back. 

The minute he saw a hint of black clothing below them, he fired. There was a yelp of pain and Clint fired again, for safety's sake. They went down the stairs; guy was still alive, though his wrist was a mess; he made an objectively brave effort to shoot them again, but Clint didn't have time for that and grabbed his gun as he went by. 

He handed it back to Coulson as they went through the door into yet another identical corridor. "You know where we're goin', Coulson?"

"I've got some idea," he said, and opened what Clint would've figured was just another hotel room door, but turned out to lead to an elevator bay. Clint looked at him, and Coulson shrugged. "I had to move the car. There's a parking garage."

"Yeah, not like the police're gonna be kinda concerned about a random car heading out of there at full speed, following a shooting?"

Coulson gave a weary sigh. "We're not going to be going full speed. And I'll show them my ID."

"Your _SHIELD_ ID?" 

"I haven't missed a check-in yet. No one's going to be looking for me."

"Except that guy." 

"What guy?" 

The elevator opened, and there was, indeed, yet another black-clad guy who looked a little surprised to see them. Clint wasn't going to let that faze him: he jumped in, grabbed him by the collar, and forced his head back against the steel wall. He dropped to the floor, and Clint gave him a half-hearted nudge to the ribs. "This guy."

Coulson rolled his eyes, stepped inside, pressed a button, then leaned over their new friend. To take his pulse, and Clint had to laugh. 

"Yeah, hope he's not _hurt_."

"The smaller the trail of bodies we leave behind, the better."

"Really?" Clint said. "As an assassin, it tends to go the other way."

"I thought you were selective."

"Yeah?" Coulson pulled out a wallet and flipped it open; the guy had pictures of himself with a sweet-looking, dark-haired woman and two kids. Like that fucking meant anything, but Clint got the point. "He was tryin' to kill me. And you, so y'know, you're welcome. And he's not _dead_ , okay?"

The elevator dinged. Coulson tucked the guy's wallet back into his pocket, but liberated a set of keys, a knife, and another gun. "Okay," Coulson said, and got out, without even looking back at him. He hated to do it, but Clint sighed and ran after him, catching up right as he got to the familiar dusty white car. He didn't say a word as Coulson got into the driver's seat, just climbed into the passenger's and pulled his backpack into his lap. Coulson handed him his haul (three guns; he must've disarmed someone else on his way up, and the knife) and Clint tucked them away. "Toss these," Coulson said, about the keys. "Once we're a couple of blocks away." 

Clint nodded, and Coulson pulled the car out and onto the street, where morning had dawned, once and for all. Sure enough, there was something of a blockade set up; there was a bit of a commotion as the lucky cop who was going to have to come over and check them out was selected. He was a nervous looking guy with a bristly mustache, a few years past the prime car-chasing age, but Coulson smiled at him all the same and held up his hands. The guy stopped a couple of yards away, and Coulson slipped one (open, flat) hand out the window to open his door from the outside. He stepped out, and approached the man, who was looking more and more uneasy, at least until Coulson held something out and tipped his head closer. Clint couldn't hear anything, which he figured was kind of the point, and with Coulson's back to him, he couldn't see anything either. He sighed, and leaned back in his seat. His left side stung, his hip was still tender from the gunshot, and his heart was beating faster then he'd like. He watched the cop slip something out of Coulson's pocket; must've been his ID, and Clint wondered, not really caring, if the average beat cop in Ecuador would _really_ know what SHIELD was and why they should listen to someone who claimed to be part of it. 

Mustache smiled. A big, cheerful smile, and patted Coulson on the back, like they were buddies now. Clint rolled his eyes and waited as they shook hands and walked away from each other. Coulson got back in the car; Clint looked at him, and was thoroughly ignored. For about another half an hour, actually. Clint didn't care.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> So I'm going to try doing chapter summaries? Hopefully they'll toe the line between being helpful and spoiling too much ;)


	5. Chapter 5

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> And so, the roadtrip chapters begin!

They were almost out of the city before Clint realized, as he was throwing the keys out the window, what was going on: Coulson was pissed. Like, straight-up angry at him, which was weird, because Clint hadn't ever really seen him like that before. It was nothing like the momentary spurts of annoyance from the safe house: it was a kind of burning cold unwillingness to even acknowledge him. 

"Was that part of the plan?" Coulson said, finally, not looking at Clint but glaring at the car ahead of them.

"Was what part of the plan?"

"Going back to your hotel. Did you know you were going to get—did you know they were going to be there?"

"Well," Clint said, deciding to hedge a little. "I mean. Yeah? They paid for it. And I like…took half a million dollars from Marshall? To kill you, which I'm just gonna emphasis, I still haven't done. So yeah, I'm not exactly _shocked_ they came after me in a place they thought I might be to try and collect?" Coulson looked at him, bug-eyed _stared_ at him, as if he could not believe anyone could be both as stupid as him and still alive. Clint shrugged. "Figured I could get rid of a couple of them right off the bat, slow down the ones still in the area, get an idea of who I was dealing with."

"And you didn't think to tell me?"

"No? Why should I?"

"Because we—" Coulson looked over at him. "I thought you were being ambushed."

"And what, you rode in to rescue me?"

"I thought you might need help."

"I didn't. I _don't_." Coulson glowered at the road in front of him some more and Clint bit back a laugh. "You're not my _partner_ , Coulson. We're doin' this thing, fine, and maybe we're gonna have to work together, but I decided not to kill you 'cause I thought you'd be better off alive and I'm kinda hoping you stay that way. So if I tell you to stay put, you should stay put."

"That's not going to work for me."

Clint looked at him; Coulson didn't say anything else, just gripped the steering wheel tight and merged aggressively into another lane. Clint waited, and waited, and waited, and finally: "You said that before. At the safe house."

"It's true." Coulson glanced over at him. "I can't trust you if you're not going to trust me, and I can't work with someone I don't trust. So if that's how it's going to be, then I guess I'm going to thank you for not killing me, and drop you off somewhere safe before calling for a SHIELD extraction. Or I could put you in protective custody. If you'd prefer."

"I wouldn't."

"Then I don't know what to tell you, Hawk."

Clint leaned back in his seat, and braced his boots on the dusty dashboard. It actually hurt his hip like hell, but it was as relaxed a posture as he was going to get in a car, and he wanted Coulson to think he was settling into it for the long haul. "Tell me what we're gonna do once we're back in the States."

"Are you sure?" Clint shrugged. Coulson'd be easy enough to ditch if it came to that. Let him think what he wanted about Clint's trust right now. From the way Coulson was looking at him, narrow-eyed and sharp, he wasn't really buying it. Or maybe he was, because: "We're going to need to work backward. From where you met her, to where she heard about you, to where her home base is."

"Maybe she doesn't have one." 

"She's old fashioned, chances are she does. I'd guess the east coast, from where her network is, and if she found you in New York…"

"You keep saying that. Where she found me. She wasn't lookin' for me in particular."

"I think she was." Coulson wasn't looking at him but he must've heard Clint's snort, and he shook his head. "I _may_ know a little more about Ms. Marshall and her network than you do, Hawk." And there it was, the smug SHIELD badass voice. Coulson was a hell of a lot more pleasant when he was playing the "Let's be friends!" card, but it was good to be reminded of his true colors, so Clint wasn't even that annoyed. "A woman like that isn't going to put her trust in a random hitman off the streets."

"I wasn't _living on the streets_." Clint snapped, then wanted to smack himself for it. He swallowed and looked away. 

"I didn't mean that," Coulson said, mild, though not particularly apologetic. "But she wouldn't hire an unknown. She was hiring your reputation, and that didn't happen by chance. You're one of the best out there, right?"

"She coulda just approached me directly."

"But she didn't. And there's a reason for that, though…" Coulson, Mr. I'm An Expert on Everything and Everyone, seemed puzzled by this. "We'll have to find out what it is." 

"Yeah, good luck with that," Clint said. "Well, I'll tell you this much. Her hired muscle ain't worth a crap."

"They were a bit conspicuous, weren't they?" Coulson seemed kind of amused by this, which surprised Clint, after he'd pitched such a hissy about Clint allegedly risking his life (and Coulson's) just to find it out. "Not locals, by the look of them."

"And seriously, who does the 'all dressed in black' schtick in the middle of a hotel? Everyone saw those douchebags comin'." 

Coulson gave him a long, sweeping look: yeah, to be fair, Clint was wearing much of the same, but he hadn't been trying to _catch himself_. Clint rolled his eyes. "I got other gear for that sorta shit."

"You do that sort of shit?" 

_Coulson curses_ , Clint thought, and smiled to himself about it. "Not as a rule. But a guy's gotta eat."

"Gotta stay off the streets." 

_Coulson's a dick_ , Clint realized, and went back to staring out the window.

*

Clint kept quiet all the way out of Guayaquil: watched as Coulson drove over a bridge onto what seemed to be an island, then off the island and onward onto dry land again. The occasional palm tree on the medians and density of old cars aside, the highway could've been anywhere, at least until they hit what he assumed were the suburbs (with their flat, peach-and-rust-colored buildings). The countryside, which was very green, was even more alien. Mountains rose and disappeared into mist off in the distance. Those were kind of nice, actually. Vastly preferable to the yellow, endless fields, which they hit a couple of hours later.

They stopped at a gas station. Coulson left him in the car while he filled up, then went up to the station to pay in cash. It was good thinking; the man wasn't an amateur, no matter what Clint felt about him. 

When he came back, he was carrying a plastic bag, and had his jacket over his arm. He looked suddenly less like the asshole Clint had to pretend to trust for another few days and more the nice guy who opened doors for women with baby carriages. Clint realized he'd been driving for hours, and probably hadn't slept in a while either. 

"Hey," he said, coming out of the car before Coulson got in. "I could drive."

"You don't know where we're going," Coulson said, maybe a little peevish, and Clint rolled his eyes.

"Yeah, Coulson, I don't know: you could tell me? Plus, I figure, just keep headin' south…" Coulson's shoulders twitched. He was holding in a laugh, Clint realized, and let one out himself. "C'mon," he said, walking over and holding his hand out. Coulson stared at him a moment, and gave him the keys. 

"Don't go too fast or too slow. Don't call attention to yourself," he said, getting into the passenger's seat. Clint nodded as he got into the driver's, and was about to say something before Coulson asked, "Apple or strawberry?"

"What?" Clint turned his head as he started the car: Coulson was holding two glass pop bottles, one full of pink liquid, the other caramel. "Uh. Strawberry, I guess." 

"Good choice," he said, popping the top with what appeared to be a red-and-white circle key chain, and handing it to him. Clint turned the car off and reached for it; he hadn't realized it, but he was thirsty, and the stuff was good. A little sweet, but cold, and bubbly. He looked up, and Coulson was smirking into his own bottle. "What?" he said, but Coulson shook his head. 

"Nothing," he said, and took another sip. He was still smiling, and it should've bothered Clint, since he kind of felt Coulson was messing with him or at the very least laughing at him, but it didn't, probably because who gave a fuck, really? Coulson could laugh at him all he wanted. He didn't care what Coulson thought.

"Okay," Clint said, taking another swig, and turned on the car. "Let me know if I'm goin' the wrong way."

"Will do," Coulson said, and leaned back into the passenger seat.

Within fifteen minutes, he was asleep. 

Clint laughed to himself, shook his head, and drove on.

*

"Wait," Coulson said.

Clint didn't jump. It wasn't like he'd forgotten that Coulson was there or anything, but he'd been so quiet, so still, that it had startled him a little. "What's up?" he said.

"We're gonna have to switch cars," Coulson said. His voice was rough, lower than usual; Clint peered at him out of the corner of his eye and saw him stifle a yawn. "Change clothes. Work out some details. Take the next exit, please."

The next exit took them to another city; Macará, according to Coulson, perfectly pronounced and with an undercurrent of excitement. Clint didn't get why: he didn't seem to know the city even as well as he'd known Guayaquil, or at least he didn't think it was worth directing Clint to anywhere in particular. They wandered a bit, got honked at by unhappy looking people in even dustier cars, and finally settled on a hotel that had clearly seen much better days. It was, however, near a pharmacy and an internet cafe, which Clint had to figure were the main draws, and not the color televisions advertised on the marquee. 

"You want to clear the car while I get the room?" Coulson asked, which was, once again, an uncalled for level of trust in Clint, who could've clearly jacked everything Coulson had in his probably impeccably packed black duffle, and his nice suit as a bonus. Of course, it was just as likely Coulson would track him down and straight-up murder his hide for it if he did, so Clint figured he'd continue to play nice. 

"Sure," he said, and Coulson gave him a vague smile and nod before hopping out of the car and into the hotel without even looking back once. 

Clint drove a few blocks away and parked it in the sketchiest looking alley he could find. He slung all the bags over his shoulder, threw the old pop bottles into some dumpsters, and did another sweep of the car, then gave the hood one last pat. Poor thing was probably about to get scrapped for parts by those skinny, shaggy-haired kids that were utterly engaged in their cigarettes across the street, but it'd done it's job and Clint was grateful. Still. It was time to move on, and he did.


	6. Chapter 6

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Clint takes off his shirt, learns one of Phil's many secrets, and idk, there may be some flirting. Just a bit. Maybe.

Coulson was waiting for him in the lobby, which was good thinking 'cause Clint hadn't even thought to ask how he was going to figure out what room he was in. His face brightened up with a broad smile and Clint stopped dead for a second before he realized that the hotel clerk was probably watching them, and started walking again. Coulson came up to meet him, and got up a little too close for comfort, which Clint was kind of expecting. It still wigged him out.

"My name is William Travers," Coulson said, under his breath and very quickly. "I'm a travel writer. You're my assistant—" Clint gave him a narrow-eyed look, and Coulson shook his head. "It's the best I could do under the circumstances. Do you have a better idea?"

"Assistant, or _ass_ istant?" Clint said, and there was a slight flicker in Coulson's expression before he rolled his eyes.

"Play it however you want." Coulson took his suit bag off of Clint's arm, and shouldered one of the other bags. His next words were louder, obviously for the benefit of the kid at the front desk. "We're only staying one night."

Clint answered in kind: "Why's that?" 

Coulson walked off, looking like he knew where was going and was too busy and important to explain it to anyone else. Clint trailed after him, like he believed that to be the case as well. "Why only one night?"

"Why at all? We're like fifteen minutes from the border."

"Because." Coulson did not elaborate, and Clint was about to say something, call up the if-you-can't-trust-me-I-can't-trust-you angle, when he came to a stop and opened the door they were standing in front of. With an actual, honest to god skeleton key, of course. 

The room itself wasn't bad, or at least, Clint had stayed in worse: two beds, clean-ish sheets, wood floor. A small round table with two wicker chairs. There was the beginning of a mildew stain on the ceiling, and the place smelled a little musty; Clint went to open the window and found himself looking at a stunning view of a brick wall. 

"Okay," he said, and he turned around to find Coulson (the anal-retentive ass) hanging his suit up in the closet and dropping his bag onto a luggage rack that looked seconds away from collapsing from the strain of the thin layer of dust on it. "Why at all?"

"It's too late to cross the border. We want to do it at rush hour, when the border guards aren't going to have the time to scrutinize our papers or remember us when someone comes looking. And we're going to need to buy a car."

" _Buy_ one?"

"We need registration that matches our ID to get across the border."

"Are you serious? Couldn't you just, uh…." he eased his hand through the air. "Smooth the way?"

"I could, of course, but we're trying not to attract attention, Hawk. I start waving money around like that, we're going to get noticed."

Clint sat down on the bed nearest the window. "Fine. Speakin' of ID…"

"Yes." Coulson made an unpleasant, pinched face. "I guess I'll need passport pictures?"

"Polaroid'll do in a pinch," Clint said, trying not to make it sound like he did this all the time (which he didn't), but at least somewhat like he knew what he was doing.

"I'll see what I can do. I'll be back in two hours. Do you want the key?"

Clint thought about it; it wasn't like he couldn't pick the lock or get in otherwise, though the stucco-smoothed wall of the hotel might present something of a challenge. It's not like that was a dealbreaker, though. "Nah," he said, and pulled off his shirt. This got barely an eyebrow-raise out of Coulson, but he felt like explaining anyway. "I wasn't about to go out like that." 

"Understood," Coulson said, fiddling with the circle keychain/bottle opener Clint had noticed before.

Clint pulled a plain blue t-shirt over his head. "You should probably change too."

Coulson huffed. "I think I'll be fine." 

"Suit yourself," Clint said, and headed for the door. Coulson followed him out, and locked the door behind him. They walked down to the lobby, together but not _together_ , and Coulson didn't even look back to see where Clint went. Clint watched him turn the corner and determined to go as far as he could the other way, just to get his bearings.

He wandered; the place didn't have the bustle of a major town, and he stood out a little more than he had in Guayaquil, which wouldn't always bother him except that Coulson seemed big on not being noticed and, well. It wasn't the worst strategy to have.

A couple of blocks from his hotel, there was a church, a yellow, red, and white confection of a building. It reminded Clint of a tiered wedding cake, or maybe a gingerbread house. It wasn't Sunday, as far as Clint remembered, but people were filing in all the same. Probably a wedding or something: people were very well dressed, and smiling a lot more than Clint usually associated with church going. Clint stuck his hands in his pockets and walked back the way he'd come.

He went to the internet cafe. Out of boredom, he searched for "William Travers writer" and discovered "Will Travel!", a very tastefully designed yet kind of hokey blog about, indeed, Mr. Will Travers's travels through Central and South America. It was mostly pictures, decent but not professional quality, of food and ruins and other touristy bullshit. He wondered if Coulson had actually taken them, or if some low-level SHIELD lackey had been tasked with putting the whole thing together. 

There was an About the Traveler (ugh) Page, with a picture of man who looked absolutely nothing like Coulson except for the fact that he shared every one of his facial features: the strong jaw, the amazing blue eyes, the twice-broken nose. But Will Travers had hair that glowed slightly red, and his freckles were stark and obvious, and he smiled wide and wore his shirt open at the collar and with the sleeves rolled up. 

A part of Clint wondered if it was who Phil Coulson might have been had he not become Phil Coulson; the rest of Clint knew that was a stupid thing to think about. Phil Coulson was Phil Coulson. He closed the window, and went to check his email before the digital timer counting down the minutes he'd paid for ran out: nothing from Dawn, or any of the other sources who should've been freaking out about his apparent defection. That wasn't a great sign, but there wasn't any point in worrying out about it now, from thousands of miles away.

By the time Clint returned to the hotel room, Coulson had not only procured two sets of passport pictures (which he'd dumped on Clint's bed), but also a six-pack of beer. He'd also set up something of a meal on the plain wood table: two steaming Styrofoam containers giving off the smell of meat and something else. He'd even managed to scrounge up glasses and was pouring one of the beers into it with the fussy skill of a frustrated beer aficionado.

"Honey, I'm home?" Clint said, and Coulson just shook his head and gave a pointed look at the door.

"You'd better have not stripped the lock."

"It's fine." 

Coulson seemed content to let that lie. "I hope you eat meat."

Clint tried not to smirk. "I do." 

"Good. Sit down. We have to talk." 

"Sir yes sir."

Coulson pursed his lips and did not look like he was in the mood to play along, so Clint sat, and opened his container. Steak, rice and beans, and something that looked brown and slimy. "Plantains." Coulson provided, and Clint nodded, like he cared. He speared one with the plastic fork that had been placed over a carefully folded paper napkin (really, Coulson?). It wasn't bad; sweet and starchy, fried in a way that would've fit in pretty well among fair food, actually. 

"So," he said. "We need to talk?"

"I've officially missed two check-ins at this point. SHIELD protocol dictates one more attempt to contact me, then—"

"Retrieval efforts?"

"The first few days will be fine. I've never done something like this before," Clint wasn't shocked, but he was kind of surprised Coulson was admitting it, and so matter-of-factly. He kept quiet, though. "So they're more likely to assume I'm in trouble and not able to trigger my tracking beacon. But the more time that goes by, it gets a little…" Coulson seemed more uncomfortable in way Clint only recognized from having seen the way he'd reacted to Blondie kissing him in front of his building. That was interesting. "Shoot first, ask questions later."

"So the quicker we get this done the better, is what you're saying?"

"Generally, yes." 

"'kay. Well. We'd already kinda figured that, though? So what's got you so wound, Coulson?"

"Excuse me?"

"You're bein' all…" Clint swirled his hand in the air. "Weird. So, what's up?" 

"I think," Coulson looked around the room, then down at his food. He hadn't touched it, Clint realized. "I think we're being tailed." 

"Already?" Coulson nodded. Clint put down his fork. "How long?

"For a while."

"Who d'you think—"

"I don't know. I can't imagine it's SHIELD, not yet. And if it's Marshall, they've definitely stepped up their game. But if it is, I can't imagine why they haven't come at us yet."

"You think they're waiting for something," Clint realized. Coulson nodded again. "What?"

"I have no idea," Coulson said, so honest that for once Clint didn't feel smug about him not knowing something, he just felt bad for the guy. "And I could be wrong. It could be…"

"For me," Clint thought about who might be in the area: there were a couple of possibilities, none of whom would do the so-called honorable thing and give him a chance to defend himself, or not take a shot when they had it if money was on the line. "Okay. Well, they don't seem to have followed us here?"

Coulson shrugged. "We may have lost them this morning. But that's not going to last; it's a small city, they're gonna track us down by morning."

"Okay. So we'll think about it in the morning."

"Hawk—"

"No. Look, there's nothing we can do about it now. I'm gonna fix up your passport. I'm gonna assume you got a lead on the car?" 

"Of course."

"Of course. Well, then we're gonna do that early tomorrow, get everything ready to go, and bail out of here as soon as possible. But in the meantime, we're gonna eat this…food," Coulson gave him a very _Coulson_ look, which had pretty much been Clint's goal, and he held back a smile. "Get ourselves cleaned up, get some sleep maybe. Okay?"

"Okay," Coulson said, not looking overly convinced, but picking up his knife and fork and cutting carefully at his steak. 

They ate silently for a while; the food was okay, hot and solid and plentiful. The plantains were definitely the highlight, and honestly, seeing as he hadn't eaten all day, Clint would've wolfed down anything. Beer was good though. Coulson poured him a second glass when he'd finished the first without Clint having to ask, and Clint felt a hell of a lot warmer toward him than he had all day. 

"So," he said. "Will Travel?"

"Oh." Coulson said, and ducked his head a little. "You found the blog?" A tiny smile pulled at the corners of his mouth and he was blushing, just a little. It was cute, if you were into that kind of thing. "He writes books too."

"Oh yeah? Any good?"

"Well, he's got a bit of a following."

"What, like fanmail and stuff?"

"Oh yeah. One or two a month." Coulson laughed, self-deprecating, and Clint found himself joining in. With him, not at him, and he hoped Coulson could tell the difference. Coulson leaned back in his chair and rubbed the back of his neck. "Well, if I ever need to quit my day job."

"Aw, give all this up?" he gestured wide, at the off-white bedsheets, the stain on the ceiling, the cheap food. "This life of glamor and luxury? Why would you? Why would you ever?" 

"No idea," Coulson said, still smiling, and tipped his glass toward Clint in a casual toast. "No idea at all." 

Clint leaned over and clinked their glassed together. "To international espionage," he said, teasing, and Coulson laughed.


	7. Chapter 7

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Fighting, flirting, and feelings. Though not necessarily in that order.

Coulson had showered the night before, and shaved that morning; it was weird to see him back in the full suit (which should've been looking worse for wear at this point, Clint had his suspicions about that), with his hair neatly combed. Clint couldn't figure out why it made him so uncomfortable.

"Aren't we supposed to be blending in?"

"Hmm?" Coulson was a little slower after waking up, Clint had noticed. He didn't blame the guy, but it was a reminder that he was human, and maybe that was what was wigging him out. 

"That get up."

"No one notices an average-looking guy in a suit, Hawk."

That might be true if Coulson was an average-looking guy, but Clint wasn't going to point that out. He finished packing up his shit and was thankful for his jeans and t-shirt approach that helped him look like any other American douchebag on vacation. Of course, standing next to Coulson, he probably looked like any other American twink on vacation with his sugar daddy. Hell, maybe it was _that_ that had him on edge.

"I'm going to get breakfast. You deal with the car."

"Be—" he heard Coulson say, as he slammed the door shut behind him. The "careful" was not too hard to assume, and of course that pissed Clint off too. 

The sun wasn't out yet, but the minute Clint got outside, he understood what Coulson had been talking about: there was immediately a not unfamiliar prickle at the back of his neck. He walked like he didn't have a care in the world, like he hadn't noticed that the darkness on the roof of the building a block away and to the left was a little thicker than it should've been for that time of day. 

He tried not to tense visibly, but he was ready, for the first twitch of movement, for the first sound. There was nothing, and he turned the corner. Nothing there, either, but a line of people down on the block, waiting for something being sold out from a metal cart. _Why not_ , he figured, and got behind a smart-looking lady in a business suit. She was cute, he realized, with a pretty red-and-gold scarf decorating the handle of her suitcase and a gold crucifix around her neck. She gave him a tiny smile that had him winking back. They kept silent company with each other on the walk up to the cart, which was much shorter than Clint expected: the cart guy was efficient, shoveling round balls of what looked like dough into paper bags and trading them for cash that was handed to him by busy-looking people. "Good?" he said, hopefully, nodding at the food.

"Very good," she said, accent clear but obvious. 

"How many?" he said, pointing at himself. 

"For you?" She made an obvious show of looking him over, and then held out four fingers. 

"Four? Okay." He gave her another crooked smile. "And for you?"

She just laughed and shook her head; Clint shrugged. He could take a hint, but he still winked at her when it was their turn. She laughed at him again but waved as she left; Clint waved back, and got the feeling that it was only because he was last that the cart guy didn't spit in his food for holding up the line. He was still glaring, though, and Clint held up eight fingers and paid double the price he'd estimated based on what everyone else had paid. That seemed to get him in good favor again, and the guy even returned his clumsy _Gracias_ (he knew that one) with _De nada_ (which he also knew). 

He walked back to the hotel with a bit more confidence; he was kind of obvious about it, but it may have been for nothing, because the vague shape across the street was gone and so was the feeling of being watched. The unease was hard to shake, though, even as he bit into one of the little fried dough balls, which was actually pretty good.

Coulson wasn't back to the room yet, and the unease flared as Clint realized the shadow's absence might very well mean that it'd gone off to follow him. He tried not to feel nervous about that, tried not to be concerned with how long Coulson was taking. After all, Clint had no idea how far away Coulson had intended to go to buy the car, how long it would take him to haggle down for it.

The sun was all the way up when the door opened, and Clint knew the moment he got a look at Coulson that he'd been right, the shadow had been after him the whole time, and not Clint. Coulson shook his head, just slightly, and put a finger to his lips before closing the door behind him. 

"You get a car?" Clint said, maybe a little too loud. Coulson nodded, and held up a set of car keys. They were on that goofy red-and-white circular key chain; Clint had gotten a better look at it the night before and realized it was a shield, with a white star inside the blue circle in the center. In addition to everything else Phil Coulson was, he was apparently also a big fucking nerd. "Good. Eat, then we're gettin' out of here," he said, throwing the white paper bag at him, and heading for the door. Coulson caught him by the wrist and shook his head again.

"Wait," he murmured, and Clint nodded, and took a step back. Coulson ate, quickly, but somehow without making any kind of mess. "You saw the one on the roof?" he said, still very quiet. Clint had to strain to hear, and walked back up to him to make sure he caught anything else he might say.

"Yeah."

"There's more now; four, maybe five. Locals, or at least much better at faking it than in Guayaquil. They seemed surprised to see me, so I don't think they're with our friend on the roof. Which means—"

"We don't want to tip her off."

"Her?"

"I got a hunch." Clint said, and hoped Coulson wouldn't push; he didn't, just nodded and kept whispering.

"So we're going have to get out of here without causing a scene."

"You don't want me shooting anyone?"

"Personally, I'd rather you shot them. But I don't think that's an option, so…" Coulson shrugged. "Let's do what we can."

"Got it," Clint said. "When you're ready?"

"I'm ready," Coulson said, and opened the door. 

The hallway was empty. Clint went first, and listened; he couldn't hear anything, so he glanced back at Coulson, who was looking down to the right. He went that way, away from the lobby and toward the door to the stairs. He tucked himself against the wall and waited. Yeah, he could hear it now, footsteps that were trying a little too hard to conceal themselves. _Amateurs_ , he thought, as the first one came through the door, gun drawn. Clint flipped it out of his hands, swung it up, and knocked him out with it. The next guy was even easier: Clint lunged at him, and heard his head hit the heavy metal railing of the staircase. There was no one else, which was…weird. He heard a grunt behind him.

He whirled around to see that Coulson, instead of struggling, much less needing Clint's assistance, was slamming his elbow into one guy's throat, kneeing another guy in the groin, then knocking down a third with the still bent-double body of the second. Coulson caught him looking, and raised his eyebrows, as if to say: _What_?

Clint shook his head, _Nothing_. But he flashed Coulson two thumbs up before turning around and breaking the last, apparently much stealthier, guy's nose as he tried to come up behind him. Then there was a hand around his wrist and instead of twisting and throwing whoever it was to the ground or maybe punching him in the stomach, he turned: it was Coulson, and somehow, he'd known it was Coulson, known not to hurt him. 

"Okay?" Coulson said, and Clint noticed something else: Coulson's hand was _still_ around his wrist, and his touch was warm, and gentle, and so were his eyes, focused on Clint's face, and his lips were just barely parted, his cheeks flushed pink with just a touch of exertion and— _fuck_. Fuck, _now_ he got it. He wrenched his arm away.

"Let's go," he snapped, and Coulson didn't even say a word, just followed him as he stalked his way back to the room. He grabbed his bag; paced as Coulson gathered his own stuff, and rushed out the door and toward the lobby. Coulson cleared his throat but made no attempt to touch him. Clint glanced over: Coulson was dipping his head in the opposite direction, toward the stairs. Once he realized Clint was looking, he walked off that way. Clint sighed, and followed. 

They passed over the prone, mostly breathing, bodies, picking up discarded guns as they went. Coulson trotted up the stairs and to the second floor, and then straight-up shot a guy who came running at them from around a corner. In the knee-cap, but still.

"What happened to not shooting anyone?" Clint said, kicking the guy's gun out of reach, and following Coulson as he ducked into what turned out to be the hotel's kitchen. 

"We're out of time," was all he said, and started jogging. Clint followed, and noticed that Coulson gave one quick wave to a young looking guy in an apron (the busboy, Clint figured) before heading for another door. The kid gave a flustered kind of wave back. Coulson didn't seem to notice it, but Clint did: apparently, Coulson got around.

*

Clint wasn't quite sure how the architecture worked out, but the kitchen, despite being on another floor, opened up onto the street as well. A different street, obviously, and from there it was a couple of well-covered blocks to where Coulson'd left the car. Yeah, Clint had to admit, Coulson was not a complete idiot about this stuff.

He'd picked a good car, too. It was a dark blue sedan, newer than the white Toyota and in better shape, but obviously second hand and pretty much exactly what he'd pick if he had been Will Travers, well-meaning American trying to get the Authentic Experience. Totally boring. Not that he'd been expecting Coulson to go for a hot red convertible or anything, but it was still comforting, after the moment in the hallway, to be confronted with his competency.

They got in quickly; Coulson didn't even pop the trunk, they just threw everything in the back seat. Coulson drove, a little fast, though, from what Clint noticed given where the sun was, toward the north and not the south. Clint didn't question it. His heart was still hammering too hard in his chest. He looked over at Coulson: his face was utterly still but his grip on the steering wheel was tight, and his hair was just slightly out of place. Clint's hands itched, wanted to run through it, mess it up for real. Instead, he leaned back into his seat, and gave Coulson a side-long look. 

"Hey. Coulson."

Coulson glanced over at him. "Yes?"

"After this, we should team up."

Coulson's mouth quirked. His grip on the wheel relaxed. "Assassins for hire?"

"Clean up services. Kidnappings. Retrieval. Whatever you're in to. Coulson and the Hawk's got a nice ring to it, right?"

Coulson laughed, a distracted, under-his-breath chuckle, and shook his head.

"C'mon," Clint said, wheedling him a little. He wanted to nudge his shoulder. He curled up in on himself a little instead. "You kicked ass back there. You're wasted at SHIELD."

"I'm an active field agent, Hawk."

"Yeah, but you don't do shit like this anymore, right?"

"You have no idea what I do," and there was an undercurrent of something to it that Clint realized he didn't want to know about. Which surprised him: a week ago, he would've been thrilled to know Agent Phil "Boy Scout " Coulson had dark, hidden depths. It'd've made his life a hell of a lot simpler. 

"Guess not," he said, and turned to face the landscape again. Yeah, they were definitely heading north. He figured he wasn't going to get to drive for a while, so he shut his eyes and tried to go to sleep.


	8. Chapter 8

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Another roadtrip chapter, now with the obligatory car chase!

They drove for about six hours; Clint wasn't going to try and figure out the method to Coulson's madness, which seemed to involve changing lanes and merging onto small country roads pretty much at random. As far as he could tell, Coulson didn't get lost, or if he did, it was on purpose. 

Clint saw a hell of a lot of skinny black cows and goats and hillsides, not to mention people giving them the evil eye, but around noon, they reached the border, and Coulson nodded at him. Clint got his (well, _his_...) passport and the car registration out of the glove compartment and handed them over to Coulson, who'd by this point unbuttoned the first two buttons of his shirt and ditched his tie. It was a good look for him, which Clint was perfectly willing to acknowledge without getting wound up about it like before. He had to keep it together for this and he would. 

It ended up being pretty anticlimactic: the guards were obviously bored and looking forward to lunch. It was pretty busy, even though it wasn't the rush hour Coulson'd been hoping to cross during. They got waved through without the trunk even getting searched. 

Once they rolled across the bridge into Peru, Coulson let out a slow breath of air and seemed to relax. Not a lot, but enough that he powered down his window (and Clint's, without asking), and flipped on the radio. He left it on static, though. Clint gave him a wary look and tried to find something that actually sounded like music. "You okay?"

"Yes," Coulson said, and then sighed. "I'm sorry." 

_For what_ was the obvious question but Clint didn't want to ask it, didn't want to hear the answer. He just nodded. "You gonna tell me where we're goin'?"

"A few miles outside of Lima. The contact I mentioned is there." Clint waited; Coulson wasn't forthcoming, but he seemed to notice the way Clint's eyes were boring into him, and finally smiled, just a little. "She's military. She can get us a ride back to the States with very few questions asked."

"You trust her?"

"Yes," Coulson said, and it was clear Clint was going to get nothing more on that front. 

"You ever fuck her?"

"Don't be crude." 

So _yes_ , obviously, and Clint laughed. "Man, Agent Coulson, you got one in every port?"

"Excuse me?"

"I saw you with the kid at the hotel."

"That's not what that was."

"What was it then, then?"

"I'm not talking about this with you," Coulson said, surprisingly sharp, and Clint knew when to back off, really he did, and sometimes he even did it. 

"Well, we've gotta talk about something, Coulson. It's a long drive." Coulson sighed, wearily, and said nothing, which Clint was going to take as an invitation whether it was meant as one or not. "You could tell me about yourself. Where're you from?"

"You've seen my SHIELD file."

Clint sobered a little. "Yeah. I'm just tryin' to make conversation, here."

Coulson sighed again. "Chicago. Which you know."

"I'm from Iowa," Clint offered. "So, we're kinda like neighbors, right?"

Coulson looked over at him, like he wasn't sure if he was going to buy the cutesy farm boy act, but Clint was going to sell it for all he was worth, give it his corn-fed all. Coulson snorted and looked back at the road. "Sure." 

"I've never been to Chicago." This wasn't true; Clint had spent three weeks in Chicago, tracking down a human trafficker that he'd taken particular pleasure in stabbing through the neck when the time came. "You miss it?"

"Sometimes. I don't miss the cold, though. Do you miss Iowa?"

"No," Clint said. That was true; he barely remembered Iowa. 

"Do you like New York?"

That was a good question. New York was okay; very easy to lose people in, full of the kind of jobs Clint liked. If Clint's line of work were the kind that encouraged putting down roots, it wouldn't have been the worst place for it. "Yeah, I guess."

"You want to talk about the weather now, or should we save that for later?" Coulson said, a little wry, and Clint rolled his eyes. 

"Fine, smartass, I'll shut up." 

He happened upon a station playing what sounded like it might be the fucking Smiths, and left it there. 

Coulson drove on.

*

Two hours later, they switched. Clint hadn't driven this much in ages, but he found himself enjoy it, even though Peruvian drivers were fucking nuts.

About an hour into his shift, he noticed a car (black, American made, two passengers) that was driving suspiciously well by comparison, using turn signals and everything. The minute Clint tried to get a better look at it, it swerved behind a massive tractor trailer that, from the smell of it, seemed to be transporting livestock.

_Shit_ , he thought. Glanced over at Coulson, who'd apparently noticed his expression. 

"Where?" was all he said.

"Behind the trailer." Coulson didn't do anything as stupidly obvious as turn his head; he glanced casually at the passenger's side mirror, then at the rearview, all without moving his head. Clint wanted to watch him more but had to keep an eye on the road, which was frustratingly crowded, except for a long stretch ahead of them. It was that or getting off the highway, but he liked the idea of a car chase through the countryside even less. 

"Two women," Coulson said, eventually. "Blonde hair. Possibly twins. Attractive."

Lauren and Caroline, Clint figured. _Shit_ , he'd actually liked the two of them, for the given value of like.

"You want a double date, Coulson?" he said, grinning a little as hit the gas and sped around a little, rattly Volkswagen. "I could introduce you."

"Somehow, I don't think they're after dinner and drinks."

"That your go-to move, Coulson?" 

"I like the classics." Coulson's tone was hilarious mildly, despite the fact that Clint had just heard the click of a magazine. He weaved between a red mini-van and a yellow jeep full of what looked like a bunch of American jocks. Surprising, but Clint gave them a friendly wave as they flipped him off.

"Good for you, man. Ladies love a gentleman." That made Coulson laugh, and they grinned at each other for a minute, and the moment was _holy shit trouble's coming_ tense between them, before Clint had to look away to be able to pass a forbidding looking black SUV. He scrapped it, which was bad enough, but about five seconds after that the rear window exploded. " _Shit_ ," he couldn't help saying, and swerved. Coulson shot him a dirty look before turning in his seat and attempting to return fire through the now empty, howling space behind them. 

From the sound of it, and what Clint caught sight of in the rearview, it didn't go great: he saw a spark where Coulson had hit one of the headlights, and then the car ducked behind the yellow jeep. The other cars around them had either sped up or swerved off, obviously not wanting to get caught in this shit storm. Clint wished he could do the same. He could hear Coulson cursing under his breath as he tried to line up another shot, and guessed he probably felt the same.

"This isn't going to work!" Coulson shouted, after a second shot clipped Clint's side-mirror. 

"What? _Why_?"

"I'm not a good enough shot!" 

Clint glanced at him, even though he shouldn't have: the road was about to turn a corner and who the fuck knew what was beyond it. Coulson was, as expected, giving him a pointed look. "Are you _serious_?"

"Do you have a better idea?" 

Clint was about to answer when he felt the car jolt, probably from having been hit again. " _Shit_." He took a breath. "Okay. I haven't, uh, done anything like—"

"Push your seat back a couple of inches. Not reclined, _back_. Move when I tell you. _Do not let off the gas until you have to_. And try to keep your head down."

"Got it, got it," Clint said, turning the car a little wildly as he tried to do as Coulson had asked. Coulson seemed to have one eye on him and the other on the black car. He shot again; Clint heard the squeal of tires and was tempted to look, but Coulson straight up _growled_ at him, and he kept driving. The road ahead of them twisted around a big boulder-looking thing, which Coulson seemed relieved to see. 

"Okay," he said, and Clint found himself jumping to attention. "When we pass that, okay? I'm going to slide over you. Just go with it."

"Uh-huh," Clint said, and yet almost swerved again as Coulson slipped his leg between Clint's knees. "Sorry, sorry," he said, to Coulson, who was kind of sitting half on top of Clint and couldn’t have been very comfortable either. Clint hoped to hell he didn't say something dumb when the time came. 

And then it did: "Now," Coulson said, and Clint fucking went for it, half twisting his body as Coulson swung over him, banged his knee on the gearshift, and took his foot off the gas. He'd forgotten to let go of the steering wheel in time, and it showed, because the car slowed for a moment, swerved, and sent Clint tipping into the footwell; Coulson banged his hip hard into the driver's door, winced, then steadied the car and hit the gas. Clint blinked at him for a moment: he looked so completely cool, so totally in control of the situation, that it left Clint staring. 

Another shot shook the frame of the car and woke him up. He scrambled onto the passenger's seat, grabbed the gun Coulson was somehow also holding out to him, and fired. He hit their windshield, buying himself some time as he dived into one of the duffle bags. 

"Coulson."

"What?"

"My rifle?" 

"I left it on the roof," he said, before swerving, this time intentionally: Clint would swear he heard a bullet whistle by them, about where the car would've been. 

"Fuck you," Clint said, though he couldn't really blame him. It wouldn't've made that much of a difference, because the twins were gaining on them anyway, but it'd be good to have something familiar in his hands at the moment. God, what he wouldn’t have given to have his bow with him, but it was back in New York, along with the rest of his personal gear. He grabbed one of the Glocks instead, heavy and still loaded. He aimed but Lauren could see it was him now, so she swerved all the way to the left of the road. Clint was good, but he'd have to shoot through the car at that angle, and he wasn't about to risk the ricochet. If only he was still on the driver's side...

"Coulson," he said, suddenly feeling a lot calmer. They were catching up, but this would work. "Can you turn us around?"

"You want to play chicken with them?" 

"Not exactly." He glanced over and caught Coulson looking at him; curious, more than anything, maybe even a little excited. "Trust me." Coulson smiled at that, and hit the brakes. A bullet flew across the hood of the car, a few feet from Coulson's head. 

"Tell me when," Coulson said, as if he hadn't noticed, and sped off, veering to the right this time. 

Clint powered the passenger's side window all the way down, wrapped the seatbelt around his right hand a couple of times, bounced up onto his feet, and said, "When."

Clint had figured he was prepared but he wasn't, not really, not for just how fast Coulson spun the car around: the tires squealed and Clint's balance wavered, but he managed to swing himself up onto the edge of the window so he was hanging half out of it. 

He got off two shots as the twins' car sped past them: the first hit Lauren, straight through her right temple, meaning she wouldn't be able to adjust the speed. The second hit Caroline in the back of the head, when she turned to figure out what had happened to her sister. Clint hoped she hadn't found out, hoped she'd died before she realized. It was stupid, but he couldn't help it. 

The rest of the car's momentum swung Clint back inside, and he almost hit his head on the dashboard before he could correct for it and twist himself into a sitting position. Coulson threw him a look Clint wasn't in the mood to parse, but all he said was, "Fasten your seatbelt." 

Clint did, and then Coulson, _fucking Coulson_ , sent the car roaring off the fucking road and into what looked like a wheat field, ramming through a barbed wire fence and toward what might possibly, in the distance, be some more mountains. It was bumpy as hell, but Clint just sat back, shook his head, and went with it. What the hell else was he supposed to do?


	9. Chapter 9

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Just a relaxing stroll through the South American countryside, you know.

They didn't get as far as the mountains. They actually stopped right at the edge of the field, and Coulson turned off the car, and he looked at Clint the way he had before. Clint still had no idea what it meant, and found himself shrinking away from it a little.

"Next time," Coulson said, and his nostrils were flaring a little, but his voice was calm, at least at first. "Warn me before you do something that colossally stupid."

"I needed to make the shot!"

"You could've made it with out the _fucking theatrics!_ "

"You don't tell me how to do my job, Mr. 'I'm not a good enough shot!' And, for the record, speaking of _fucking theatrics_ , never _fucking_ ask me to do your _stupid spy bullshit_ again. We could've fucking _died_. God _dammit_ , Coulson! What the hell did you _expect_ from me?!" 

Coulson was staring at him, and panting, and Clint was panting too, and every nerve in his body felt like a live wire, and he could still feel the whip of air around his body from when he was half out of the car and traveling at probably fucking 90 miles and hour and _he could have died_. And Coulson was looking at him, red-faced and angry _and worried_ , Clint got it now, got what that look meant, like he didn't want Clint to die, like he was glad Clint hadn't, like the reason he was pissed was because Clint could have.

And it was stupid, it was so fucking _stupid_ but when Coulson reached out for him he was ready and he wanted it and he opened his mouth, even leaned in, only to have Coulson pull his hand back before they touched. "You forgot to keep your head down," he said, and Clint blinked.

"I uh—I what?"

Coulson reached over again, but quick and officious this time. He pressed it against Clint's neck, which stung, and Clint realized it probably wasn't sweat he could feel trickling down his shirt. "It's fine," Coulson said, as if Clint couldn't tell from the fact that he wasn't dead from a bullet to the neck. "It's a graze. Probably won't even need stitches."

"Uh-huh," Clint said, noticing, at about the same time Coulson did, from the sudden widening of his eyes and blush in his cheeks, that Coulson's hand was still around the back of his neck, that his thumb was stroking lightly at Clint's collarbone. Clint turned his head away. The warmth of Coulson's hand disappeared, leaving only the sting. "How'd they find us?"

"I've got a theory," Coulson said, and he sounded a little…uncomfortable about it. Clint glanced over at him again. "I think my…" Coulson sighed. "I think someone activated my tracker."

"Are you serious?" Clint said, starting to feel irritated again, more so now that he wasn't going to get to work it out through a quick, life-affirming fuck. "Can they do that? You couldn't have fucking _mentioned_ that? Jesus, Coulson, what the—"

"I didn't think they could! I've never heard of it happening, and it hasn't even been long enough to—"

"You're an idiot. God, Coulson, don't you _get it_? They weren't after you 'cause SHIELD told them to, but they sure as hell got that info from SHIELD. Who's the—no, fuck that, we have to take it out, or deactivate it, or whatever. They're probably _still_ tracking us, dammit. Where is it?"

"That's the other thing."

Clint did not have time for this. " _What's_ the other thing?"

"It's—you're going to have to help me. It's in my back. Where I can't..."

_Oh_ , Clint realized. He was going to have to depend on the guy who'd been sent to kill him, originally, to slice him open and remove a delicate piece of technology, right near his spine, right over his lungs. Yeah, fine, Clint could muster up some sympathy over that. "Okay," Clint said. "Okay, I can do that. I can…you're gonna have to tell me what I'm looking for, but we can—"

"Not now."

"I don't know about you, Coulson, but I think now's a pretty good time, given that we almost just got killed, 'cause of you're—."

"The tracker's more than just a…beacon. It tracks my vital stats. If I just pull it out—"

"They'll think you're dead?" Coulson nodded. "Well, that's what we want, right?" 

"No, because they'll just come looking and figure out what we did. If it's SHIELD, they know about my contact, so they'll probably know where I'm headed, and—"

"So what're are we gonna do?"

"They don't have to be _my_ vitals."

"You want to slip it into someone else?" 

"Or some _thing_ else."

Clint thought about it. It wasn't a bad plan, though he didn't know enough about the tracker to know for sure (wouldn't they notice it went out for a while before it was shoved back into something living?). "Who? What?"

Coulson shrugged. "Can I have your knife, please?"

"Why do you just _assume_ I have a knife on me?"

"I searched you while you were unconscious," Coulson said, like that wasn't creepy at all. 

Clint sighed, dug it out of his pocket and handed it over. Coulson flipped it open and, before Clint could even say anything, sliced his arm open, shirt and suit jacket and all.

" _Jesus fucking Christ, Coulson!_ "

Coulson gave him a look, like _you're not the one bleeding, so shut up_ and let the blood drip onto his pants, the seat, the steering wheel. Clint was starting to get the picture he was drawing, but he wasn't happy about it. Ditching the car was one thing, it was going to be pretty useless, but around here, he wasn't sure when they'd get another one, much less what condition it'd be in, _much less_ what condition the people they'd take it from might be in. He had enough shit on his conscience at the moment. He didn't say anything, though, just sat there as Coulson stripped off his jacket and cut a couple of strips from his sleeve. He bandaged himself up with them like it was nothing, like it was something he did all the time. Clint recognized the ease he had with it and had to look away. 

"Okay," Coulson said, wiping the knife of on his pants, closing it, and handing it back to Clint. 

"That better not get infected," Clint said, as he opened the passenger door and grabbed his backpack. Coulson grabbed his duffle but left the suit jacket, and the suit bag, in the back seat. Clint didn't ask.

"It won't," Coulson promised, like he was _just that_ in control of his body, and Clint rolled his eyes. 

They walked for a while. The weather was kinda nice, thankfully. A couple of people saw them, busy-looking folks who clearly didn't want any of the kind of trouble two unknown white guys dragging big black bags were bound to bring, but Coulson just waved at them and walked along, full of boundless confidence and looking like he belonged despite, Clint just had to emphasis, the fact that he was dressed in suit pants and a fancy shirt, both of which were covered in blood, one of which was ripped at the sleeve. 

It occurred to Clint that maybe Coulson was _trying_ to look conspicuous, and it was probably working very well, but it made Clint's skin itch. 

"Can we cool it with the whistle-stop tour, Coulson?" he hissed, after witnessing one more cheerful greeting (Coulson had even called something out that time) at a middle-aged woman who'd been getting into her car. 

"You bored, Hawk?" There was a glint in his eye, like he was having a good time here. Fucking perfect. Clint watched him glance around the place (dirt road, neat little house, the smell of animal shit, which Clint had depressingly nostalgic reactions to), and shrugged. "Fine."

And he walked off, like he knew where he was going, and around the back of the neat little house. Clint followed him, grumbling as he went, and was confronted with the full-fledged scent of a pig pen. Full of pigs. Well, that would work. 

Coulson seemed to think the same, and dropped his bag onto a wood bench and started to unbutton his shirt. Clint glanced away, scanning the surrounding area for anyone who might notice a crazy American getting half naked in front of a pigsty. No such luck, and he looked back. 

Coulson was walking up to him. He had a fair amount of chest hair and he was _built_ , not for show but for function. He had as many scars littering his chest and arms as Clint did, maybe even more. And he was tanner than expected, not that Clint had spent a whole lot of time thinking about what Coulson looked like with his shirt off. There were bruises that looked pretty fresh, a large, angry-looking scar over his left hip, and freckles.

"It'll be easier if I show you."

“Uh-huh,” Clint said, nodding, like he had a clue. Coulson turned and twisted his arm up and around his back. He gestured to a spot on his back, and Clint took a step closer, pressed his index and pointer finger at where he seemed to be pointing. He didn't feel anything out of the ordinary, just warm, freckled skin and the shift of muscle underneath. He dragged his fingers up a little higher, and Coulson twitched. Yeah, there was a bit of a bump there, maybe. "There?"

"Probably."

"You don't _remember_?" He may have sounded a little hysterical, and Coulson took a breath.

"It's hard to tell when you can't see it go in."

_Oh god_ , Clint said, swallowing his laughter. He took a breath, then flipped his knife open, then closed. "I gotta wash my hands."

"Hawk—"

"No, look, you may have some kinda antibiotic wonder drug in your bag there, Coulson. But I'm not sticking my fingers in your back and digging out some piece of crap—" Coulson sighed and started to walk away from him, which was just perfect. "I'm serious, Coulson, I'm not gonnna—" he started digging through the aforementioned bag and pulled out what looked to be pretty much a wet-wipe. 

"Seriously?"

"Best I've got," Coulson said, gritting his teeth a little, and Clint sighed and waved his hand, encouraged him to turn around. He opened the knife again, and the little plastic package. It smelled strongly of alcohol, which was good; he wiped his hands with it first, then Coulson's skin, then the blade of the knife with an unused corner. He reached for Coulson again, sought out the same spot; it took him a moment, and he pressed his palm against the warm, mostly-smooth plane of his back. A few scars dotted that terrain as well, but nothing like the front. Well, Clint was about to add one more. 

He found the bump; fiddled with it a little, until Coulson cleared his throat.

"Sorry," Clint said. "Ready?"

Coulson made an impatient noise, but Clint felt his muscles relax, which was good, 'cause otherwise it was going to hurt like a bitch.

He did it quick; a tiny cut at first, and there was more blood than he was expecting. He'd never had that much contact with the blood of a person he wasn't trying to kill, actually. It shouldn't have been that different. He sliced a little more, stuck his pointer finger in (Coulson flinched at that; Clint wasn't going to hold it against him), and, with the help of his thumb, wiggled out what appeared to be a very small metal capsule. Coulson turned around. He looked a lot less queasy than Clint felt, which just wasn't fucking fair.

"Got it?"

"Fuckin' hope so," he said, dropping it into Coulson's hand, and striding off. 

"Where are you—"

"Finding your fucking patsy."

*

He found a pig. A big, mean looking sucker; he wasn't about to stab one of the little piglets for this, though it might've been easier. This guy was so fat he didn't move much, probably barely felt it when Clint stuck him. He didn't even squeal as Clint shoved the tracker into him, just snuffled and snorted around in the mud for something. Clint, being an idiot, figured that would be it, and turned around.

That's when Babe rammed into his thigh, almost sending him toppling into the mud; Coulson grabbed his arm and helped him up right, and if they hadn't been in such a hurry to get out of there and avoid the new glint in the pig's eye, it would've made Clint nervous. 

But there were worse things to come, like Coulson changing. At least he ducked into the house for that, picking the lock with a casual amorality that Clint had to admire. Clint waited on the bench with their stuff. Supposedly keeping watch, but not doing a great job of it, because he almost startled when Coulson shut the door behind him and came back out.

He was in jeans now, and another button up shirt, this one a kind of mossy green color. It did weird things to his eyes. Clint stood up and held his bag out to him, a little worried about whether he'd be able to carry it. The wound on his shoulder wasn't that big, but it would begin to sting, probably, and—and Coulson didn't seem to care, swung the thing over his shoulder like nothing had happened.

"I checked a map. There's a town a couple of miles away. We can be there in an hour, if we move quickly."

Clint shrugged, and they headed out.


	10. Chapter 10

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Another town, another hotel room, and another UST ramp up. So, business as usual.

Calling the place a town was being very, very generous.

It had a couple of shops, sure, and they'd passed quite a few little houses, clustered together as if against the cold, a church, and a square. 

There was a hotel, which Clint found kind of hilarious, because who the hell would ever come here? He said as much, and Coulson mumbled something about waterfalls nearby. Clint took a look at him and swallowed: he was pale, and Clint could see that blood had dripped down his back and was staining his shirt all the way down to his hip.

"Coulson…" he started, with no idea how to finish: _Are you okay?_ was dumb, 'cause he obviously wasn't. _You look like shit_ seemed a little less than comforting, though it was pretty true. _I'm worried about you_ was impossible. "Do you want me to get the room?"

Coulson nodded. "I think that's…that's a good idea."

A good idea it might have been, but it took some doing: the guy behind the counter was short and squat, with thick, hairy arms and crinkles around the eyes that indicated a certain amount of good humor, but his English was about even with Clint's Spanish, which was to say, basically non-existent. It took a consultation from what Clint had to assume was the guy's daughter, who was significantly more sullen looking, to muddle through the transaction. He glanced back at Coulson every few minutes: he was sitting, primly, in obvious hope that he wouldn't get blood on the thread-bare upholstery of the chair he'd been very careful not to collapse on to. 

Finally he got a key; wasn't even sure of the bed situation, but he got the key, the room number, and scooped up Coulson's bag as well as his own. Coulson didn't even fight with him about it. "Got us a room. C'mon," he said. He nudged Coulson's shoulder with his hip. "Mr. Travers."

Coulson smiled a little at that, and stood up: yeah, he was definitely pale, and blood had even started seeping through his sleeve, not just down his back. 

"Go in front of me," Clint said, though he was pretty sure neither the innkeeper nor his daughter was paying them any attention anymore. Still, better be safe and not give them the full view of the fact that Coulson looked like he'd been mauled by a wild animal or something. 

Thankfully, the room (#4) was on the first floor. Clint hustled him in, dumped the bags on the floor, locked the door behind them, and grabbed Coulson by the shoulders. 

"What the hell's the matter with you?"

"I think I—" Coulson swallowed visibly. "I think there may have been some sort of—secondary—defense mechanism in the…" Coulson wrenched out of Clint's grasp and, with a strangely un-erring sense of direction, pivoted into the bathroom to throw up. 

It took a while. Clint paced in the meantime, and, after about a seconds' worth of thought, unzipped Coulson's bag and started digging through it. A slim black case was right on top, thankfully, and he pulled it out. As suspected, it held a bunch of neatly packed pills, bandages, a suture kit. 

The bathroom was small but clean, and when he walked in, Coulson was bracing himself, one-handedly, on the sink. He looked slightly flushed, and wet: as far as Clint could tell, he'd splashed cold water on himself, and given his condition, gotten his shirt soaked in the process. 

"I think I'm going to…" Coulson laughed to himself a little. "I'm going to need your help stitching me up."

"I got you," he said, because that was something Clint could handle. "You need anything else?"

Coulson shook his head. "Think it's wearing off."

Clint wasn't so sure: Coulson still had a hazy, not-all-there look in his eyes. He nodded anyway, and gestured at the bathtub. "Sit," he said, and Coulson did, perching himself carefully on the edge. He started to unbutton his shirt, but seemed at a lose as to how to do it, so Clint marched over, plopped the med kit on sink, and leaned over Coulson as he took care of it. Coulson looked up at him, eyes still unfocused, but he seemed to be seeing _something_ , because every time Clint glanced up at his face he was frowning a little, as if trying to concentrate. 

Clint stripped the shirt off of him; it clung to his skin because of the blood and the water, and Coulson winced as Clint had to move his arm a little. 

And then Coulson was shirtless in front of him, taking deep, steadying breaths as Clint leaned over him to grab the med kit off the sink. 

"Gonna do your arm first."

"Okay," Coulson said, even though it hadn't been a question, but Clint wasn't even going to raze him about it, just went to work stitching him up. Coulson was very, very still, even as Clint passed the needle through his skin without so much as a shot of vodka to numb the pain. So much so that Clint wondered if he'd passed out or something.

"You're good at this," Coulson said. Clint glanced up. 

"Yeah."

"Better then…" Coulson swallowed, and blinked a couple of times. "Earlier."

Clint dropped his eyes. "I work from a distance, Coulson. Cuttin' people open's not exactly my go-to move." He finished with Coulson's arm. "Turn around," he said, and Coulson did, swinging is leg over the rim of the bathtub with a lot more presence of mind than he'd been showing earlier. Maybe the after-effects of whatever it was _were_ wearing off. There was a long trail of blood all the way down to the waistline of Coulson's pants, which was probably going to piss him off once he realized it. Clint opened the tap behind them, and soaked a corner of Coulson's shirt to start wiping the blood away. There was more of it than the cut Clint had made should have merited. "I mean I'll…" Clint wasn't sure why he was still talking, but it was easier then it would’ve been facing him. "I'll get up close if I've got to, get the job done, but I don't do the busting people down shit, y'know?" Not anymore, anyway. He cleaned up the edges of Coulson's wound with another of those antiseptic wipes; Coulson shivered a little at his touch, but didn't so much as flinch when Clint got to pulling surgical thread through his skin. He pressed his right palm flat against Coulson's back anyway, an attempt at comfort. "It's all about the kill shot," he found himself saying, quiet, almost hoping Coulson wouldn't hear. "I don't get off on it, I mean—I don't get off on people's pain."

He felt Coulson inhale, then exhale. "I never thought you did," he said, turning himself back around. His eyes were soft, and he already looked so much better, so much more focused. Much more centered than Clint felt, at the moment, which was fundamentally unfair.

"I know. " And he did. Coulson'd been way too decent to him, considering. He smiled at the guy, to let him know he appreciated it. Coulson smiled back, a little sad.

"I'm sorry about your friends."

"Who?"

"The twins. You knew them, right?"

Clint laughed. "We weren't friends or anything like that. We just…we did a job together, once. Caroline and I had dinner a couple of times." And sex. Lots of sex. He'd even spent the night once. He wasn't about to tell Coulson about it. "Lauren couldn't fucking stand me. But they were…" Clint sighed. _They were_. "Their daddy was a real bastard. Cold-blooded sonuvabitch, worked a ton a mafia jobs, y'know? Real sadistic shit. Lauren, she just wanted to make the old man proud. Caroline wanted to show him up, throw all that old Italian machismo right in his face, show how much better she could do the job." Clint had gotten that, kind of. Liked it a hell of a lot. He sighed. "Anyway. It is what it is, right? Kill or be killed?"

He didn't know why he phrased it as a question. Didn't know why he was looking at Coulson like that, making eyes at him, except he did know and it was stupid to deny it. He was a reckless little shit and he was angry and he wanted to forget everything and feel good. Coulson was there, and he was nice, and he was hurt, and Clint could trust him, at least this much, at least right now. And he was staring back, which helped, and he didn't so much as jump as Clint scooted closer, ran a hand up his thigh. His breathing went all shallow, and Clint leaned in. 

There was a knock on the door. Clint was willing to ignore it but Coulson wasn't, or, more likely, Coulson was glad of an excuse to jump up and away from him, because that's exactly what he did. Didn't even look back. 

Clint sighed. "I'm gonna take a shower," he called out, and when he didn't get a response, he kicked the bathroom door shut.

He took his time; jerked off, purposefully not thinking about Coulson, not the feeling of Coulson's skin under the palm of his hand, not the way his breath quickened and his cheeks flushed. He absolutely did not imagine it was Coulson's wide, careful hands on him, his rough palm curled around Clint's cock. 

He didn't think about anything, really. He came, and he leaned against the cool tile, and he let the water run over him, stayed till the hot started running out (which didn't actually take that long, but it still filled him with passive-aggressive glee). 

When he came out, Coulson was basically back to normal; his hair was neat, he’d changed into a black t-shirt and dark blue jeans, and he was sitting precisely on his bed with his arms crossed. "I've got news," he said, and there was a little smirk to his tone. Clint wanted to punch his stupid smug face but instead he plopped down on his bed and pulled the bed sheet over him. 

"Can it wait till morning?"

Coulson was quiet for a moment, and then he said, very kindly. "Of course. I was going to get food if you—"

"I'm not hungry." He was fucking starving, now that Coulson mentioned it. But it wasn't like this was the first time he'd ever gone to bed hungry.

Of course, it was the first time he'd done it just to be a dick. Thirteen-year-old Clint Barton, hell, _eight_ -year-old Clint Barton, would've told him to grow a pair and eat something, who knew when he'd get a chance again, then probably kicked him in the balls and run away. Clint smiled at the thought, curled up on himself a little, and shut his eyes.


	11. Chapter 11

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Old friends, new friends, and even more criminal behavior.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> There is a brief mention of past child abuse in this chapter: it's one sentence with not much detail but, y'know. Just be aware.

Clint slept till almost ten in the morning the next day.

Wasn't sure if Coulson had let him because he thought Clint needed the sleep, or because Clint had been such an ass lately and didn't want to risk waking him, or what. But there he was, blinking awake to a very bright sun, wincing at the stretch and ache of almost all of his muscles. Clint had lived hard for years, but he was kind of out of practice for anything beyond the basics of getting on and off of roofs at high speed and in high stress. Walking for hours across the Andean farmland hadn't strained his stamina, exactly, but it’d done him good to get the rest. 

Coulson was just sitting on the other bed, reading a magazine, with legs stretched out in front of him.

"Good morning," he said, pleasantly enough, with an undertone of caution. Clint rolled over and buried his face in his pillow. 

"What's your news?" he managed to articulate, eventually.

"We get to sit tight for about a day."

"'Get to'?" Clint groaned; he was pretty sure he heard Coulson chuckle about it, but when he turned to look his face was placid as could be.

"Have to, then. My contact's going to be here early tomorrow morning. She said she can get us a lift out of Piura."

"The hell's that?" 

"A city. It's about an hour west of here." Coulson went all quiet after that, looking at Clint as if expecting him to contribute to the conversation. His stomach growled, and he dropped his face into his pillow again.

"Your contact got a name?" 

"Yes," said Coulson, because he was an asshole.

"Am I allowed to know it, or is this some more super secret spy bullshit?"

"Camilla. Camilla Reyes."

Clint nodded into his pillow. "'kay."

"I was going to…" Coulson trailed off as Clint turned to look at him. "Going to get some breakfast. Or lunch, as the case may be. Would you like something?"

"Don't…" he stifled a yawn. "Don't put yourself out or anything." 

"Okay," Coulson said. Clint wasn't sure if that was _okay I'll get you something_ or _okay go screw yourself_ , but he rolled over once he saw Coulson getting up and stared at the ceiling.

Once he heard the door shut, he got up, changed into a fresher pair of jeans and a new t-shirt, and resisted the temptation to go snooping through Coulson's stuff. Not because he respected Coulson's privacy or anything, but because Coulson would come back and he would _know_ , and Clint couldn't bear to see his superior smirky face over it. Instead, he hunted down the remote for the TV. Everything was in Spanish, naturally, but most of the tv-shows were dubbed, which was easy enough to deal with, as long as he turned the volume down. 

Coulson was back within the hour anyway, with enough coffee and, to Clint's eyebrow-raised amazement, donuts for the both of them. Coulson just shrugged in response, and handed him a paper coffee cup.

They didn't talk much for the rest of the day.

Clint got over himself enough to ask Coulson how his arm and shoulder were doing, if he needed help changing the bandages, but they were fine and he didn't, so that was one avenue of conversation gone. Everything else, Clint wasn't willing to talk about.

("You can turn that up if you want," said Coulson, about television.

Clint shrugged. "I'm not really watching it."

But Coulson didn't make any move to change the channel, or to turn the volume up, just sat back down, pulled out a dog-eared book, and sat back down to read.)

They got dinner; room-service, steak sandwiches, nothing remarkable, and waited some more. Coulson made another call, terse and in yet another language Clint did not know. Clint flipped over to CNN International and ignored Coulson as he changed back into a suit he must've been keeping in reserve in his bag, though it was pretty much flawless and lacking the kind of creases Clint would've expected from a tightly packed and folded thousand dollar piece of clothing. 

There was another phone call well past midnight; Coulson answered it, nodded, and hung up the phone. 

"She's here," he said, as if Clint couldn't tell from the way Coulson was straightening his tie. There was a knock on the door and Clint got up as Coulson went to get it.

"Come in," Coulson said to the woman at the door. She was a little shorter than him, dark haired, and frowning. Also, attractive. Very attractive. "It's very good to see you."

"And you," she answered with obvious sincerity and a slight sparkle in her eyes. Her mouth softened a little, then returned to the full frown when she caught sight of Clint. "Is this him?"

Coulson nodded, then waved a hand between them. "Camilla. This is—"

"Hawk," Clint said, offering his hand. She took it, and her grip was steady and strong, with a small amount of posturing that he figured she'd adopted to deal with the macho paramilitary douchebags that Clint undoubtedly looked like right now. Everything about her, from her bearing to the not-subtle callouses on her hands, read military to Clint, despite the khakis and corded cream sweater she was wearing. 

"Good to meet you," she said, less sincere than she'd been with Coulson. _Significantly_ less sincere, if her subtle side-eyed glance at Coulson was anything to go on. 

They spoke rapid-fire Spanish at each other for a while; she looked at Clint with a certain amount of distrust that Clint couldn't really blame her for. Coulson said something long and involved, with a certain degree of hand gesturing, the only word of which Clint caught for sure was ' _amigo_ '. Clint was glad to hear that one, even if a part of him didn't think he deserved it, not with the way he'd been acting. She still didn't look terribly pleased to have him there. Clint gave her his sunniest smile, which earned him a frown, but after a while she finally nodded, at him, then at Coulson.

"I will help you," she said, switching to English, apparently for Clint's benefit. "But only because it is you. Not because it's SHIELD."

"It's not SHIELD," Coulson protested, but she shook her head.

"Everything is SHIELD with you, Philip," and she gave him another very heavy, very personal _look_. "I will wait for you both outside." 

Coulson watched her go with a very weird, unreadable look on his face.

"How do you know her again?" Clint said, as Coulson blinked and seemed to have to remind himself to stop staring.

"Old friends. I was stationed down here and…old friends. Let's go."

*

The trip was quick, much quicker than the hour Coulson said it was: Clint got the feeling that he hadn't been anticipating the fact that Camilla Reyes drove like a bat out of hell, whipping her black Range Rover down the highway at violent velocity, all the while carrying on some kind of silent conversation with Coulson, who was riding shotgun.

Clint was in back, with the bags, trying to keep his eyes on the black landscape around them and the rare other car. But his gaze kept being drawn back to the back of Reyes and Coulson's heads. Reyes's dark hair was long and carefully braided; Coulson's was perfectly trimmed and combed and familiar. Clint found himself wishing he'd run his fingers through it when he'd had a chance. 

Coulson looked back at him. "What?"

Clint forced a smirk. "Are we there yet?"

Coulson rolled his eyes and turned back around. 

"Five minutes," said Reyes, and caught Clint's eye in the rearview. The woman was razor sharp steel, and Clint had the sudden urge to drop his gaze and apologize for something. Instead, he stared back, and, well, playing chicken with Coulson's ex-girlfriend was not exactly going to top his list of proudest moments, but she did look away first, and Clint was willing to count that as a win. He felt like he needed it.

*

For all that Coulson had mentioned a city, they ended up in front of a chain link fence, topped with barbed wire, with no city in sight. Reyes held out an ID badge for the guy at the gate, who saluted her before waving them through. Clint figured the place for a military base, squat tan buildings that were basically indistinguishable from each other, though Reyes seemed to know exactly where she was going. It was, unsurprisingly, an airstrip. Three other cars (a sedan and two vans) were waiting there, along with the plane.

Clint had kinda been expecting a military plane or something, but it looked like a private jet. One of the other cars, a black Jaguar, had a guy leaning up against it and smoking what was very likely a cigar. He waved, and Reyes waved back with a very fake smile on her face. 

"Rodrigo?" Coulson said, barely moving his lips, and Reyes nodded. She parked the car a few yards away. Turned off the lights, and half-turned in her seat to speak to both of them.

"Keep your eyes shut. Don't look at any of the boxes. Rodrigo is a friend of mine, but he is not a friend of yours, and so…"

"Camilla," Coulson said, reaching out to clasp her arm. She turned back toward him. "I understand. I really do appreciate this."

Coulson and Reyes looked at each other for a moment in a way that made Clint not very happy at all, but it wasn't like he could do anything about it, so he opened the door, slung both bags over his shoulder and walked toward the plane.

"Ah!" Probably Rodrigo said once he was in hearing range. "You are Mr. Coulson, yes?"

"Nope," Clint said, and walked right past him and up the stairs. 

The interior looked like it'd been pretty fancy once, with dark wood detailing and eight wide, cream-leather seats. The carpet had clearly seen better days, though, and every spare inch that wasn't the aisle to the cockpit or three of the seats was packed with wood boxes of various sizes. Clint couldn't help but lift the corner of one of them: the smell of earth hit him, hard, and he caught a glimpse of several lumps that had been carefully wrapped in sheets of bubble wrap. Well, at least it probably wasn't drugs. 

Clint sighed, tossed Coulson's bag onto the seat furthest to the cockpit, and took the one across the aisle from him.

*

"I don't like her," he said, hours later, when they were over the ocean. Probably Rodrigo was up by the cockpit, taking advantage of the lack of FAA regulations and smoking his cigar with obvious gusto, when not chugging down his apparently bottomless glass of whiskey.

Coulson, who’d been reading, seemed startled by the interruption. 

"Reyes," Clint clarified, and Coulson shook his head. "I don't like her."

"You don't have to." Clint had to admit that was true, but it still pissed him off. 

"Your Spanish is really good," Clint said, as if he'd just noticed, and he heard just how he sounded, fucking snide or something, _jealous_ about it, and Coulson gave him a strange look in response. 

"Thank you?" he said, and then shrugged. "Minor in college. Spent a semester abroad."

"Where?" Clint asked, like he gave a fuck. 

"Spain," Coulson said, with an air of finality that did nothing for Clint's overall mood. Of fucking course Spain. While Clint was mucking elephant shit and getting the crap beat out of him when his aim was an eighth of an inch off, Coulson was touring Europe. No wonder he didn't want anything to do with some stupid fucking hick from Iowa who happened to be a great at killing people but was fucking awful at everything else. 

God, what the hell was wrong with him. It wasn't like he was expecting romance and flowers and picket fences from his life, but he liked Coulson, liked the look of him, figured they’d have a good time together. He wanted to fuck him already and get it over with, because that was always how these things went, because he thought it'd do them both good to have the distraction over with. They could screw around till the end of this disaster of a team-up and then shake hands and go their separate ways if they survived, or at least have something good to go off on if they didn't.

Coulson didn't seem to want to follow the script and it was throwing him off. He and Reyes had obviously been a thing, and the busboy in Ecuador had been blushing for a reason, and he didn't seem entirely indifferent to Clint. But he was apparently indifferent enough, and Clint's self-esteem could deal with outright rejection but he wasn't sure how to handle the mixed signals. 

Coulson noticed he was staring. "What?" he said, a little sharp, and Clint just huffed and turned away. 

"Nothing. Wake me when we land."


	12. Chapter 12

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Clint gets a job offer, panics, and does something pretty dumb.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> In case you're wondering if Clint (and/or Phil) are ever going to catch a break, the answer is...yes, but not in this chapter. A little bit in the next one. Kinda. You'll see!

Probably Rodrigo might be some kind of shifty smuggler with a serious nicotine addiction, but Clint had to admit he was one hell of a good sport. He helped unload his own plane full of sketchy shit, clapped the three sturdy-looking young guys waiting for them at the bleak Tennessee airstrip on the back, and invited him and Coulson out to lunch to celebrate their survival. When Coulson turned him down, he'd offered them some fancy looking rum, a night on the town, first pick of whatever was in the boxes that had by then been packed into two minivans with tinted glass, and, finally, one of the cars the sturdy-looking young guys had come in.

Coulson took him up on the last one, and put up with a very sloppy but apparently very sincere hug from the man, before extricating himself, new car keys in hand, and grabbing Clint's arm before Clint could do any more than wave at their new benefactor. 

"What the fuck, Coulson?" he said, yanking his arm away, but keeping up with him. 

"Just get in the damn car, Hawk." 

In his shock, Clint found himself doing just that, hopping into the dark blue sedan, and keeping quiet as Coulson put the car in drive and took off. 

"Seriously, what's up your ass?" 

Coulson glanced over at him, half surprised, half _oh you're one to talk_ , but all he said was. "You some want pie?"

" _What_?"

"Let's get pie." And he swerved, thankfully onto an exit and not straight off the road as, Clint would have pointed out, he was probably just as likely to do.

They passed a diner within seconds of coming off the highway, a tiny looking place that was probably the only restaurant for miles. The parking lot was full, at least. 

Inside, it smelled slightly of ammonia and mostly of grease. They got herded over to a booth by a sweet-faced teenager who looked desperate to break out of the small-time life. Clint didn't blame him in the least, but kinda hated him all the same.

"What can I getcha?"

"Pie." The kid stared at Coulson for a few seconds, and Coulson blinked and shook his head. "Apple?"

"Yep," said the kid, before turning to look at Clint. 

"Uh, the same."

The kid ambled off. Clint looked at Coulson; Coulson looked back at him, then sighed.

"He wanted to hire you."

"Rodrigo?" Coulson nodded. " _Hire_ me?" Clint thought about that; not a career he'd really considered, smuggling black market whatever-it-was. He couldn't say he had the skills for it, though—

"He knew who you were. He wanted to hire you for… _that_." Coulson spit it out, and Clint, in spite of himself, was kind of insulted.

"Well, shit, Coulson, did he at least give you a card to pass on? I'm not exactly gonna be rolling in offers after _this_ bullshit," he waved a hand between the two of them. "And a guy's gotta eat, y'know?"

Coulson threw something at him. It was, in fact, a business card: Ernesto Klein, Antiquities and Collectibles, with an address in New Mexico, of all places. Clint made a real show of looking it over, then tucking it in his pocket, wishing he'd had a wallet so he could slip it in there. When he looked back Coulson was rolling his eyes. "Good luck with that," he snapped, and Clint narrowed his eyes. 

"You don't get a fucking say in what I jobs I take, Coulson. In fact—" the pie arrived, and Clint shut his mouth, at least till the kid had wandered off again. "You don't get a fucking say about _anything_ I do. You’re not my boss, you’re not my partner, you’re not even the guy I'm fucking, so—" the kid was back, staring at Clint, then at Coulson, with wide eyes. Clint turned his head and glared out the window.

"Is that what this is about?" Coulson said, softly, and Clint glanced back at him. The kid had left the two of them mugs of coffee and retreated behind the counter; there was the muted titter of pointed conversation from the other customers swirling around them now, along with the smell of cheap ammonia.

"No idea what you mean," he said, too slow, too careful, to be anything but stupidly obvious, and looked down at his pie. He forced a forkful of it into his mouth. Coulson was suspiciously silent the whole time, apparently just looking at him, but Clint was content to ignore him while he shoveled regrettably delicious apple pie into his mouth.

"What is it you want, Hawk?" 

"What, like from life?" he said, trying for flippant, but Coulson put down his fork and reached over. His fingers were warm around Clint's wrist for just a moment, just to get his attention.

"Okay," Coulson said, before letting him go. "Start there."

"Are you kidding me?"

"No." Coulson's eyes had gotten all soft again, and his expression was curious, concerned. Clint tamped down his sudden urge to bolt. "Talk to me. After this, what are you going to do?"

"If we survive, you mean?"

"Sure." 

Coulson was so calm about it, was the thing. Clint couldn't deal with that right now, just slumped down into his booth. "Don't know."

"Do you want to keep doing this?"

"Eating pie with you?" 

Coulson's lips tightened. "Killing people for a living."

"Well, when you put it like that…" Clint forced himself to smirk. "I haven't got a lot of what you'd call marketable skills."

Coulson's fingers tapped at the formica tabletop a couple of times. "I know you're not going to want to hear this—"

"I'm not joining SHIELD."

"You wouldn't have to be an agent." That was a bit of a surprise; he thought Coulson would ask him why. Coulson seemed to take his lack of protest as encouragement. "We have consultants. Independent contractors. We'd figure something out for you."

" _We_ would?"

" _I_ would," and something about the way Coulson was saying it made it sound like a promise, like he wanted Clint to hold out his hand and shake on it. Like he was offering Clint something so amazing, an opportunity he couldn't turn down, a chance to be something other than a fucked-up drifter who occasionally got paid a shit ton of cash to put high-speed projectiles through peoples' brains. Clint just shook his head, and Coulson sighed. "At least think about it, okay?"

_No fucking way_ , Clint wanted to say. _I'm not gonna be chipped like some kind of wild animal to be tracked. I'm not gonna take orders from some all-knowing asshole in a suit. I'm not._

But he couldn't bear to think what Coulson would say to that. He just nodded instead, which earned him a smile, another wrist squeeze, and another slice of pie.

They walked out of the diner half an hour later, and Clint couldn't help touching his wrist where Coulson's thumb had brushed over his pulse.

*

Clint drove them to Knoxville; Coulson got them a nicer room than usual, two beds as always, but with a well-stocked minibar and nice soaps and soft towels in the bathroom. They got room service, two huge burgers and a strawberry milkshake for Clint; Coulson smiled at him when he handed it over, in a thoughtless, comfortable way. Their fingers brushed, and Clint—Clint felt like he'd been punched in the gut. He swallowed hard.

"You okay?" Coulson said, and Clint shook his head.

"I need some air," he said, throwing Coulson a quick smile before turning around to grab his key-card and some spare cash. "I'll be back."

"Hawk—"

"I know, I know. I'll be careful." Coulson gave him a look like he sincerely doubted it, but Clint winked at him, and gave him a little wave before heading out the door.

*

He walked around for a while. He hadn't been lying about needing air, though that wasn't all he was out for; he hopped on a bus going across town, rode it to the end of the line, and stuck his hands in his pockets as he wandered around a little more and finally spotted the bar. He hadn't been there in years, but yeah, he was pretty sure it was the right place.

It was too early for it to be totally packed, but there were a few guys about Clint's age playing pool, and a pretty brunette in a dark blue dress at the bar. He walked over and waved down the bartender for a beer, which was plopped down in front of him almost immediately. He took it with him to a booth: not the most comfortable seating in the world, but the high wooden backs of the benches blocked sound from entering, and exiting.

He drank in silence for a while, carefully not thinking of anything in particular. 

Eventually, the brunette from the bar slipped onto the seat in front of him. 

Clint smiled.

"How's tricks, Annie Oakley?"

Anne rolled her eyes at him, but smiled anyway, a slight, exasperated thing. "Not bad, Hawk."

"How's the runt?"

A broader smile at that, and she pulled out a picture. "Walking and talking, can you believe it?" The kid had his mother's dark hair, though it was curlier, and what Clint presumed was the father's blue eyes. He was holding a puppy, with exaggerated gentleness. 

"Cute," he said, because he had no real idea what else to say. "You take this?"

She shook her head. "Jim sent it to me."

"You seen him lately?"

"What's lately?" she said, shrugging. "But you're not down here to ask me about my kid, Hawk."

"Not here to ask you anything, Anne. Just happened to be in town, thought I'd say hello."

"Quite a coincidence, that." 

"Guess so."

They stared at each other carefully for a few more seconds, and then Clint looked away. 

"We're friends, Hawk."

"If you say so."

"I'm not screwing with you, honey. But you are in some deep shit, and you sure as hell don't need me to tell you that."

"I need to know how deep it is, Anne. And I figure you're the one to ask."

"Why?"

It was a good question, and Clint didn't have a great answer for it. Anne was reliable and always had her ear to the ground, and she was like Clint: she had standards, and certain code of her own, and as far as Clint had figured it, it didn't include taking out one of her own. But this was a risk, and the only reason he was taking it wasn't something he was about to disclose. 

"Cause there's a damn price on my head and I might only trust you 'bout as far as I can throw you, but that's sure as hell more than I can trust anyone else right now."

She gave him a soft look, and took a delicate sip from her rum and coke. "Right back at you, asshole," she said, with obvious affection. "Marshall's offering five million."

"For _me_?"

Anne shrugged. "I'd be flattered, if I were you." 

He sat back in his chair. He kinda was, actually, and it shouldn't've helped, but it did. "Well, shit," he said, and Anne raised her glass to him. He lifted his own, then took another gulp. "Anyone take her up on it?"

"Besides Lauren and Caroline, you mean?" she said, still smirking. "Marquez has some feelers out. Offering shares for info." 

"How much?" 

"You wanna throw your hat in, Hawk? 'cause you've got a bit of an unfair advantage, there."

Clint shrugged. "What's fair?"

"Fair's I coulda called Marquez the minute you walked in here and made a cool two mil, so don't be an asshole."

"Well, glad you didn't," Clint said, though he wouldn't have cared: Marquez was a joke, no way he'd get close enough to pose any real threat. "Thanks for that."

She gave him a nod; they drank together in silence a while, until Clint couldn't stand it anymore.

"Can I ask you something?" 

Anne smiled at him. "Can I stop you?" 

"Never have before," he said, and she kicked his shin under the table. "What happened with you and Jim?"

She stared at him for a moment, and then laughed, throwing her head back. 

"What?" Clint said. "What's so funny?"

Anne was still giggling. "Shit, Hawk, I don't know," she managed, among snorts. "Tale as old as time, I guess. Boy meets girl. Boy's a high school teacher. Girl poisons people for a living. Boy didn't take to kindly to that, in the end."

"You didn't have to tell him."

She'd stopped laughing, and looked at him with a weird, cool expression. "Of course I did," she said, and that was all she was apparently willing to say, not that Clint wasn't going to push some more.

"What, you love him too much or somethin’?” he let it drip with sarcasm, but Anne just laughed at him some more, shaking her head as she did.

“Or something," she said, as she sobered. "It's a hell of a thing, Hawk."

"What is?"

"Bein' with someone who's not like us."

Clint didn't have anything to say to that. 

Took a steadying gulp of his beer instead; she eyed him for a bit, then took a careful sip of her drink. Her mouth opened, like she was going to say something, but it was suddenly much too loud to hear anything, and the gust of air behind him let him know a rowdy bunch of fratboys had just poured in the front door. 

He'd turned to watch them, and missed the words. "What?" he yelled.

"I'm so sorry, Clint," she said, and it took him too long, _much_ too long, to realize she'd used his first name. Which she didn't know, or hadn't. He surged back as quickly as he could, but not, as it turned out, quickly enough to avoid the needle that pierced his arm. 

"Well, _fuck_ ," he managed, as his legs gave from under him, and the last thing he saw, the last thing he heard, was Anne apologizing to him again, her eyes swimming with sincerity.


	13. Chapter 13

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Clint very much doesn't catch a break.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> The descriptions of torture alluded to in the tags take place in this chapter. So, be aware.

He woke up slowly, but with the irresistible urge to vomit. Which he did, all over his chest. The heaving sent his already sore shoulders screaming, and he did his best to straighten himself up, put less weight on them. The metal chains holding his arms up bit into his wrists as he did, but he was surprised to find he could stand easily. He looked in front of him; a dingy window let in scant light, enough to cast the slim figure in front of him in shadow. 

"Sorry about that," Anne said, in her most gentle soccer-mom voice. "Might've overdone the dosage. You've lost weight." Clint's eyes focused: she was in khakis and a pink blouse now, carrying what looked like a wet towel. He didn't flinch away from her as she wiped him off, but started working out how helpful it would be to headbutt her while she wasn't watching him. Even if it wouldn't be helpful, he still wanted to do it, just on principle, but she stepped back before he got a chance. Fixed him with a disappointed look. "Don't make this harder than it needs to be, darlin'."

"Don't know what you're talking about."

She slapped him. It was louder than it was painful, but it was enough of a shock that he gasped. "You really shouldn't play dumb with me, Clint."

"Not playin', Annie. Just comes natural."

She laughed at that, but it didn't stop her from slapping him again. He'd seen it coming that time, considered ducking it. Thought better, in case she decided to restrain him further, and kept still.

"Anne," he said, tasting blood from his lip. " _Anne_. Is this about Ronnie?"

" _Robbie_." She said, sharp and full of malice, before she shook her head and rolled her shoulders. "Barton, you're a hell of a guy, but you don't know shit."

Well, she was right about that. "Then tell me," he said, watching her as she pulled a switchblade from her pocket. "I know this isn't your kinda racket. Nothing this up close and personal."

"On the contrary," she said, pleasant as a Sunday morning discussion of the weather. "Poisoning’s as personal as it gets." 

She kept her eyes on his face as she dragged her knife down his chest, leaving a narrow line of red. It hurt more than it should have; the must've been something on the knife, something making its way through Clint's bloodstream as he spoke. 

"Five million's all it takes, huh?"

"Didn't hurt," she said, running a sharp slice of pain across his collarbone. "Enough to get out of the business, right? Thing is, it's kind of a package deal, though."

"Capture, torture, and execution?"

She sighed, then pain bloomed across his left side as she stabbed him. "I warned you about playing dumb, Barton,” she said, dragging the knife out. The serrated edge ripped through his skin, and a warm trickle of blood trailed down his side. "You and the Suit. I need you to tell me where he is."

"Why would I tell you…" he swallowed, blinked as he tried to focus. His tongue felt heavy in his mouth. _Coulson_ , he thought. _Coulson is gonna be so pissed_. "Why would I tell you that?"

"Because you're both going die anyway."

"Part of the human condition, Annie Oakley." She didn't so much as twitch at the nickname, just crossed her arms in front of her.

"You'd much rather I do it, Barton. You said you trusted me."

"Yeah, _that_ worked out swell."

"Trust me to kill you quick, then. Trust me to kill him without all of this…" she waved a gloved hand over the surgeon's tray of tools, and his chest. "Messiness." She took a step closer to him, close enough that he could smell her perfume. "Just like going to sleep." She looked up at him, through her dark lashes. "I'd even let you watch."

He choked a little. "You're a fucking awful salesman, Annie." 

She shrugged, and took a step back. "You're a fucking awful assassin, Hawk. I mean, come on. You should've just killed that poor man when you had the chance. Now you've got the rest of us caught up in this mess. And the thing is, I still can't figure the hell out of _why_. What, are you sweet on him or something?" she said, cloyingly sweet, teasing.

“Yeah, or something,” he mumbled, and she laughed. 

"No, that's not it. Well, you’re not fucking him, I know that much." He glared at her; she smiled. "Maybe you want to be, though?"

"Fuck, no," he managed; her smile faded a little. 

"Huh," she said, cocking her head at him. Her brow furrowed. “Are you—"

" _No_. That's not—" he swallowed. "I'm not—"

"Oh, _honey_ ," she said, and punched him in the face.

*

He woke up; still hanging from the ceiling, still bleeding, and whatever it was that'd been on her knife had worked its way out of through his system because now everything _hurt_ like it hadn't before. But he could focus now, could see that she was sitting in a folding chair, one leg crossed over the other, just watching him. She had her phone out, was typing something out, before she seemed to realize he was watching her.

"Hi there," she said, full of forced cheer. "How're we doin'?"

"Can't…complain..."

She laughed, and got up, shaking her head as she pocketed her phone. "Such a gentleman, Hawk. I did always like that about you." She was empty handed, not that that meant anything, as she walked up to him. "So I'm going to do you a favor." He could still smell her perfume, cloyingly sweet, and he felt like he just might vomit again. "You'll barely feel a thing." The sharp pinch in his arm wasn't even surprising; he'd seen her hand move like a blur, the glint of the needle before it sunk inside of him.

*

It all got kind of fuzzy after that, but in a strange way. Still painful, and if he kept losing blood at the rate he had been, he was going to be completely useless even if he _was_ able to focus enough to get down.

But Anne was very, very obviously not trying to kill him. 

Anne wasn't even trying to hurt him _that_ much. 

If Clint could trust his own judgment at the moment (which wasn't exactly a sure thing), Anne was doing nothing so much as _playing_ with him. Keeping up appearances for some reason, not even bothering to ask him anything. Not that he could've answered her if she had: his tongue was heavy in his mouth and he could barely hear her over the beating of his heart; not that he _needed_ to, but it should've made him struggle, should've made him panic.

It didn't.

*

He thought about Coulson.

Tried not to, because the further Coulson was from his thoughts the less likely Clint'd be to start talking about him in a moment of weakness. 

But Clint's mind kept wandering back to him, after Anne had left the room and right before he passed out. 

He was gone, Clint had to figure; he'd have realized Clint had bailed on him by now and gone to ground, or done something dumb like call SHIELD in. The thought of that roiled Clint's empty stomach: Coulson alone, Coulson surrounded by enemies he couldn't recognize or refused to acknowledge. Clint didn't think he'd been much of a help but at least he'd _been there_ , been there to watch his back and remind him not to be an idiot. 

Clint sighed. Of course he'd fucked that up, and now he was going to die here, once Anne lost her patience with him, and Coulson was left vulnerable as hell, and it'd all been for nothing in the end.

He should've kissed him when he had the chance.

*

" _Barton_ ," she sang out, and Clint blinked awake. "Look at me, honey."

He forced his head up. She smiled at him, put down the knife she'd been working with. "Won't be much longer now," she said, and hell if he knew if that was a good thing or bad. 

"What d'you…what do you mean?"

Her mouth twitched. She actually looked excited. "You'll see." She turned around, walked over to her chair, and dragged it closer. "You were right, y'know?" She looked at him as if expecting an answer; he didn't give one, and she sat down. "This wasn't exactly my forte." 

He took a deep breath; his chest rose and strained his shoulders, and he swallowed down the impulse to groan. "No…kidding," he forced out instead.

She smirked. "I mean, I know the basics. Learned from the best, you know?" Clint didn't; he had no idea where Anne had come from, what her training was in. "But on the practical side, _well_ ," she shrugged, and pulled her white plastic gloves off. "Not a huge fan." 

"Shoulda just killed me."

"You know, I was gonna," she said. "Figured you wouldn't roll on the Suit, or didn't know where he was anyhow; no point in dragging out. _But_ …" she stood up, pulled her phone out of her pocket. "Duty called. Turns out you're more useful alive than dead. Least, for now."

_To who_? was on his tongue, was almost off of it, once he finished processing what she'd said.

Instead, he gasped. It took him a moment to figure out why, as he stared at the space where she'd been, stunned and blinking. 

Glass had shattered, he realized. He could see the night sky through the broken windowpane. 

He looked down; she was still, thick blood seeping across her pink blouse, spreading across the concrete floor.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Another cliffhanger! I feel so bad about it that I'll probably post another chapter today. But it'll be a late today, probably after 9pm.


	14. Chapter 14

He'd seen his share of dead bodies before. Been responsible for a fair number. And he'd seen ones that looked objectively worse. Wasn’t exactly squeamish about it. But he couldn't stop staring, now. The air still smelled of her blood and he could almost taste it on the tip of his tongue, no matter how many times he swallowed.

His shoulders still screamed with pain but in the back of his mind, slowly dripping forward, was the sureness that he wouldn't be here much longer. 

And he was right: ten minutes, and he heard an alarm go off, then quickly cut out; there were screams and running and a loud, metallic bang, and then silence.

Silence, silence, silence for another five minutes, and then the door eased upon and…

_Coulson._

Clint wanted to sigh but he couldn't, it made his shoulders go up and they _couldn't_ , but Coulson rushed up to him and was all around, touching his side and taking his pulse and talking to him.

"Barton," Coulson said, and Clint looked at him, blinking, knowing he'd been asked something but not what. 

"Yeah?"

"Do you know where the keys are?"

He shook his head. Coulson nodded, abrupt and professional, even a little rude, as he turned around and carefully patted down Anne's body. Clint watched the back of his head fitfully, wanted to run his fingers through the soft short hairs at the nape of his neck, to press his face against Coulson's shoulder. He choked in some air and Coulson's back seemed to tense, but he shook his head before standing and walking back.

"Hold on, Barton," Coulson said, and Clint couldn't help himself: he laughed.

"If you insist," he said, and Coulson half-smiled as he leaned close, raised his hands to be able to fiddle with the cuffs. Clint watched as he slipped a slim bit of metal ("Paper clip," Coulson said, almost bashfully, as if it was any less impressive because he'd had to improvise) into the keyhole. Coulson's eyes were focused on his work but Clint was staring at _him_ , at the cool blue of his eyes, the sweat on his brow, the powder burns on his shirt. No blood though, not yet. There was a click, and suddenly one of his arms was free, but the other shoulder burst into agony, as it took on all of the weight that had previously been shared between both. Coulson grabbed his now free arm and wrapped it around his shoulders. 

"Here," Coulson said, looking up at Clint, with his gorgeous blue eyes. Clint nodded, and clutched at Coulson's shoulder, pushing off against it as much as he could to alleviate the strain. Coulson went to work on the other lock, pressing up so tightly against Clint's chest that he could feel his warmth, could feel each of Coulson's breaths against his chin. 

Another click, and Clint collapsed, legs not quite ready for use. Coulson's arms wrapped around him, smoothing his skin, rubbing his back. Trying to keep him warm. Coulson was whispering something to him, something soothing and gentle and Clint gave in, pressed his cheek to Coulson's chest, and shivered until Coulson shimmied out of his jacket and managed to drape it over Clint's bare back without ever having disengaged from Clint, somehow.

"You shot her," he said, eventually, teeth chattering. 

"Uh-huh," Coulson said, from above him.

"'s not a bad shot," and it wasn't, even if Coulson'd gone for center mass and Clint would've gone for a headshot. 

"Not as good as you."

"No, but…'s not bad."

"Thank you," Coulson said, soft, and patted him. It was weird but he loved it, wanted to lean into it but to do so he would've had to pull away from the warmth of Coulson's chest. 

"Was that my rifle?"

"Uh-huh."

"You told me you'd left it."

"Yeah, I may not have been 100% truthful to the guy sent to kill me. How about that?"

It wasn't especially funny, it wasn't even a joke, but Clint laughed anyway, and Coulson pulled back a little. Clint would've complained but it meant Coulson was looking at him, all soft and concerned again, and he smiled.

"Hey."

"Hey," Coulson answered, distracted. "What did she give you?"

Clint shrugged. It hurt, a lot, and he sunk back down against Coulson's body, pressing his face into Coulson's shoulder, and mumbled, "No fucking clue." He sighed. Shut his eyes as he tried to remember anything relevant, but nothing came, and he let out another heavy breath. Coulson tensed against him.

"Hey. _Hey_ ," Coulson was holding on to him, tilting his face up to be able to meet his eyes. "Stay with me. Stay with me, Hawk."

Clint wanted to nod, but knew it was a bad idea. He blinked instead, trying to focus on Coulson's face. The man looked worried; his mouth was a tight, impatient line, but his eyes were still soft. Clint wanted so much to touch him, to cling to him, to kiss him, but he didn't. _Wouldn't_ , not like this, not while he was still so out of it, not while he was still bleeding. 

"You came for me," he said, trying to—no, not trying to. Just said it. His voice cracked. He didn't care. "You're here. I thought…" _I thought I'd never see you again. I_ wanted _to never see you again_. He swallowed, and shut his eyes; Coulson made a worried sound, low and sweet, and Clint looked up at him again. "What's wrong?" he said, or tried to, but he thought he might've slurred it a little, and Coulson just looked upset, for some reason, and that was the last thing Clint wanted, the last thing he'd _ever_ want. Coulson was talking to him again. 

"I was—I'm sorry, I'm sorry it took so long, I—"

"'s okay," Clint said, and it was: because he was there, because he came, because it was Coulson and Coulson had saved him and Coulson was holding him up and keeping him awake and everything was fine. "You okay?"

"Fine," Coulson said, smiling a little, and that made Clint a little better able to breath. Coulson seemed to take this as a good sign: "Can you stand?"

"Uh-huh," Clint managed, though he wasn't 100% sure. He'd try it, though. For Coulson. He'd try anything. Coulson stared at him for a few more seconds, making sure of something, and then he let go of Clint's face (disappointing) and gripped his arms (better). Leveraged him up, and Clint felt a lot better than he expected to. He leaned on Coulson, but it was more because he wanted to than because he had to. 

"We're not in a hurry," Coulson said, gently, and Clint let his head flop on to the man's shoulder: it was warm. Smelled of…nothing, really. Fresh air. He'd been outside recently, it must've been a cold night. "Take all the time you need." 

"Uh-huh." He stumbled a little; it wasn't intentional, but the way Coulson wrapped an arm around his waist made him glad he did it anyway. 

The walk out was long, and painful, and Clint stepped in more than one pile of wet, sticky blood and had to be led around no fewer than five black-clad bodies. Distantly, Clint wondered about that: Anne was ( _had been_ ) like him, worked alone as much as she could, and when she couldn't it was others like Clint that she partnered with. Someone without allegiances or ideals that neither of them had the patience for. 

But mostly he just held tight to Coulson, and tried hard not to throw up. 

It _was_ cool outside, and Coulson took a moment to wrap his jacket even tighter around Clint's shoulders. Clint didn't feel anything other than Coulson's body heat, which was soothing at his side and creeping across his back, steady on his hip. "Jesus, Coulson," he said, not able to help himself. "You're so _warm_."

Coulson gave a little chuckle at that; it took a moment for Clint's thoughts to form, but he realized the man was _embarrassed_ , though he couldn't guess why. He tilted his head up a little. "Thank you," he said, because it was important. Coulson glanced down at him: their faces were so close that Clint could feel the warm puffs of his breath, see the beginnings of laugh lines in the corners of his eyes. He wondered at them: Coulson didn't seem to laugh much, but maybe he hadn't exactly had the time lately. He realized he'd been starring too long; Coulson glanced away, and Clint noticed that the tips of his ears were pink as well. He smiled to himself the whole walk back, even as the asphalt bit into the bare soles of his feet.

Coulson'd somehow procured a car again, a good one this time, and once inside Clint realized it'd been hot-wired. _Jesus Christ, Coulson_ , he thought, and was completely unsurprised at the shiver that ran through him at the thought. 

"Okay?" Coulson asked him.

"Hm?" 

"You made a…" Coulson cleared his throat as he started the car. "You made a noise."

"’m fine," Clint managed, and sank back into the seat

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Ah, sorry folks, I know I promised two chapters yesterday but things got hectic. I'm not going to promise anything today, but just know I'm aware of how short this chapter is and how relatively unsatisfying it is (especially compared to what's next ;), so....


	15. Chapter 15

Coulson drove to a shitty looking motel, parked the car on the far side of the building, where it wouldn't be visible from the highway, and turned it off. Clint looked at him for a second (fine, Clint had been looking at him for the full thirty minute drive), and dropped his eyes once Coulson's gaze flickered back to him. 

Coulson didn't say a word as he opened the door for him, just smiled and offered a hand up. Clint didn't take it. He could make it the five steps it would take to get the stairs on his own, and once he got there, the handrail would be fine. 

The corrugated metal steps bit at his feet, but there weren't many of them, and Coulson hurriedly went past to open the door for him. 

The single bed was made, and Coulson nudged him toward it, mumbling something about getting supplies to clean him up. He went with it, for now, because it was easy enough. He stretched out: Annie had left his back alone, and he was thankful for that, at least. He closed his eyes. Could hear Coulson, could hear the tap running, water being squeezed out of a towel. His footsteps on the carpet were soft but obvious, intentionally so, and Clint almost laughed at the kindness of it. 

"Okay?" Coulson said, from very close, and after a moment Clint felt the bed shift, as he sat down beside him. 

"Okay."

The water on his skin felt amazing, not too cold, just warm enough. And Coulson was so gentle, so careful that even as his wounds stung, even as Coulson stitched up the uglier ones, Clint hoped it would never end. 

But it did. He heard the water slosh as Coulson dropped the hand towel he'd been using back into it, and Clint could feel him shift, readying himself to get up.

Clint grabbed his wrist without thinking about it. Peered up at him, eyes half-closed. Coulson sat back down.

Clint sat up. Coulson didn't move; his eyes didn't even flicker, just stared straight into Clint's, and Clint was going to look away, _wanted_ to look away, but instead he kept looking. The crinkles at the corners of Coulson's eyes, the mussed strands of his hair. He looked tired; Clint realized he didn't know how long he'd been gone, how long Coulson must've been looking for him. But it was enough for Coulson to look entirely exhausted, and when he smiled (and that was the thing, Coulson _smiled_ at him, small but sincere, in response to the look Clint knew he was giving, one that had pretty much never produced smiles of any kind in the past), Clint knew how the rest of the night was going to go.

He leaned forward; Coulson didn't move away, but he did look surprised. When their lips met, he made a sound that wasn't quite shock but was certainly uncertain, and then another when Clint dropped his hand to the inside of his thigh. He was so, so warm, warmer than he'd been earlier, which was probably impossible but felt true. 

Clint wanted all of him in that moment. To touch everything, taste everything, curl up inside of him and never lose that closeness. Coulson was kissing him back, wrapping his hand around Clint's arm. He slipped his tongue into Coulson's mouth; Coulson pressed back, angling his body closer but still not entirely up against Clint's chest.

That was disappointing. 

Clint reached out, grabbed at his shirt, which had once been white but was now covered with sweat and dirt and blood, all of which, Clint distantly realized, must be his own.

He didn't care. He twisted his fingers in it, holding on tight as he pulled Coulson down on top of him. Coulson let him, leaned over him, kissed him back. Stroked carefully at his arms, and chest, and face. And it was good, great, even to be touched like that, but Clint'd been stopping himself from doing this for days, almost lost the chance to do it altogether, so now he was going to get it done and enjoy it, even if, _especially_ if, this was all he was going to get. He dragged his mouth away from Coulson's lips even though it felt like losing a part of himself to do it, and leaned up a little, started to kiss down his neck.

It was amazing: Coulson tasted like sweat and soot and still smelled like gunpowder but it was _amazing_ , heady and familiar and his fingers were running through Clint's hair and Clint took that as a sign, as much of a sign as he was going to get, and went to unbutton Coulson's shirt. 

Coulson took a shaky breath at this and, _damn it_ , stopped running his fingers through Clint's hair. He pulled back instead, slightly out of reach, which wasn’t nearly as nice.

"I don't think—"

"That's right," Clint said. "No thinking," and he lunged, thrust his tongue back into Coulson's mouth. Coulson was still and unresponsive for all of two seconds before he sighed into Clint’s mouth and pushed him back down on the mattress. Clambered over him, lacking his usual grace and composure but managing to straddle Clint’s hips all the same, and then leaned over and kissed him so hard their teeth clicked. 

Clint bucked up against him and Coulson rolled off, opened his mouth like he was going to say something logical and pointless, and Clint dragged himself on top of him. He couldn’t really keep himself up but it was easy enough to nuzzle against his throat, to roll his hips slowly. Coulson wasn't hard yet, not like Clint was, but Clint could fix that, _would_ fix that. He slipped his hand between them, rubbed the palm of it against the front of Coulson's pants and yeah, he could get him there, he could tell from the way Coulson's breaths had taken on a desperate, panting rhythm, the rise and fall of his chest obvious against Clint’s.

"Hawk—"

"It's Clint. You can call me that, it's—" it was dumb and Clint knew it, knew he'd regret telling Coulson that much, but at the moment he didn't care. Coulson had come for him. Coulson had killed for him. It might not mean much Coulson, might not mean anything, but it'd been years since Clint had even that much from anyone, and he might as well take advantage of it while he could. " _Please_ ," he murmured. “I want to. Don't you want to? I—“ and Coulson's hand was cupping his cheek, his fingers light on Clint's skin, and it was perfect and it was too much and he dived back in to kissing him and squirming against him and he wasn't paying close enough attention or he was just that out of it, because Coulson flipped him onto his back again like it was nothing, like he was just some stupid kid to be thrown around.

It should've bothered him. 

It should've freaked him the fuck out, actually, to lose control of the situation like that, but with Coulson looming over him, pining him down against the mattress, all he could think was _yes, please_.

Coulson was going to fuck him. Coulson was going to hold him down and fuck him and Clint wanted it so badly he could barely think, could barely breath from it. He spread his legs wider and then changed his mind, wrapped them around Coulson's waist. He was hard now, and Clint thrust up against his erection, making him groan.

"C'mon," he said, and Coulson closed his eyes.

"Clint," Coulson breathed, and something in Clint's heart burst, bloomed bright and delicate and warm against his ribs, which were aching anyway, and he leaned up to let Coulson kiss him again.

Coulson did, light and gentle this time, and if that's how Coulson fucked, well, Clint was willing to go with it, would still enjoy it. Coulson pulled back a little, and Clint wasn’t going to let him, until he murmured " _Clint_ ," again and set Clint melting against the mattress and just waiting for Coulson to do whatever he wanted. "Clint," he said again, more serious this time, and Clint smiled up at him, squirming as he licked his lips.

"Yeah?" he said, confident and cool and expectant, as Coulson sighed and pressed their foreheads together.

"We can't do this. _I_ can't..."

Clint laughed. "Uh-huh," he said, thrusting his hips a little, rubbing against Coulson's erection with his own. Coulson sighed, and rolled off of him again.

" _Coulson_ ," he whined, and the man just dropped a quick kiss to Clint's temple and pressed his hand against Clint's chest. Clint whined, but Coulson held firm, though his expression softened a little.

"Phil's…Phil's fine, right now."

" _Phil_ ," he said, wanting to turn over and attack his mouth again, wondering if he reacted to hearing his name the same way Clint reacted to hearing his own, but he couldn't: he tried, but Phil just pushed him back down, a few impossible inches away from the solid heat of Phil's body. "Fuck, Phil, you're such a goddamn _tease_."

"I'm sorry," Phil said, apparently meaning it. "But you're still high as a kite and this is a—this is a very bad idea, anyway, and—"

Clint kissed him. Not to push, just to kiss him, and Phil just sighed and let him. "It's okay," Clint said, still breathless, tracing around the curve of Phil's ears, soaking in the feeling of Phil's body, half on top of him but entirely solid. He wouldn't have let anyone else pin him like this but Coulson, _Phil_ , he wouldn't hurt him now, so it was okay. "I want this. _Phil_ ," he said, as Phil tried to turn way. "I want this. You want this—"

"I don't." Clint cocked his head at him and gave him the most unimpressed look he was capable of. It was tough, because Phil close up was very impressive, especially right now, with his hair even more of a mess than before and his lips swollen from the kissing, and also hints of beard burn he'd gotten from the stubble on Clint's cheeks. Phil shook his head. "I _don't_ , not like this. I want you, but not this, not like _this_ ," and Phil sounded both desperate and awkward and embarrassed, from the way his eyeline dropped when Clint tried to meet it.

"You want me?" he said, and he was kind of screwing with Phil about it but he was also curious to see what he’d say.

"Of course I do," Phil said, going all soft and mushy and tender about it and Clint wanted to think it was ridiculous but he wanted to kiss him even more, so he did, leaned up just a bit, and Phil's lips were perfect until they broke apart and he started talking again. "Of course I do. _Clint_. You're perfect."

Clint kind of had to laugh at that, and he let go of Phil's shirt and flopped back down on the bed. "Yeah, okay."

"You are. God, Clint, I look at you and can't believe you'd let me touch you. You're so strong it kills me, all I want to do is take care of you."

Clint has no idea what to do with that. "And I've got a nice ass."

"You've got a great ass," Phil said, strangely serious. "But I know a lot of people in very good shape. You're more than that. You're amazing."

"The Amazing Hawkeye," he said, and yeah, maybe he was too high for this, he shouldn't have— "People used to call me that," he looked at Phil from the corner of his eye, and Phil blushed. 

"Oh, yeah?" Phil said, suddenly flustered and it was weird, but endearing, and Clint smiled.

" _You_ don't have to call me that. You can just call me Clint," he said, and Phil leaned over him again and kissed his cheek.

"Clint," he said. "Get some sleep. We can't stay here too long."

"'kay," Clint mumbled, and shut his eyes.

*

It was either very late or very early, depending on how you thought about it.

The room was entirely silent, except for Phil's breathing. 

Their bodies weren't touching, except for where they were: Phil's arm was draped across his waist, palm curved around his hip. As if he'd needed the contact but not wanted to crowd Clint. It was nice. 

Clint turned his head; Phil was still asleep, face buried in his pillow, but all it took was Clint turning over onto his side for him to blink awake. He still looked tired, nearly as much as Clint still felt, but it didn't matter, Clint didn't care, he needed as much of this as he could get before it was all gone again. 

He lunged forward, and Phil caught him, met him with an open mouthed kiss and open arms and it was perfect. It was impossible, but it was perfect, and the two of them seemed just as willing to ignore how impossible it was for the moment. Phil stroked at his back, gentle and careful, and Clint curled closer, threw his leg over Phil's hip and clutched at his shirt. Phil's mouth was warm and tasted like he'd been asleep for a while, but Clint didn't taste much better, and ultimately he didn't give a shit. He just clung tighter, pressed his tongue into Phil's mouth and encouraged him, sucking his tongue and whimpering when Phil responded with obvious enthusiasm. He brought his hands up to cradle Clint's face and kissed him harder, so hard that Clint rolled over and pulled Phil on top of him again. 

Phil was solid but careful, not willing to put any weight on Clint's chest, which was unfortunate because Clint really, really wanted him to. But he kissed dirty, with a lot of tongue, and off-center, pulling back every few seconds, making Clint want to chase him. But he couldn’t, because by the time he tried to, Phil was on top of him again. It was perfect, so hot his heart felt like it was going to burst in his chest, and then Phil pulled back, for real, far enough that Clint could see his face and the look in his eye and—

"Fuck," he said, realizing, and Phil looked confused, but only for a moment, and then he gave that familiar _told you so_ smile.

"Yeah," Phil said, still panting, and he stared to move off of Clint but Clint wasn't going to let him, not yet, not _yet_ , he could have this for a few seconds more even if he couldn't have it for real. He stroked his hands up along Phil's arms.

"I mean. We can't. But…"

"Clint." Phil brushed his thumb over Clint's bottom lip, which was kind of a mixed signal. "We really can't." 

"You just…you feel so good," he said, and his voice fucking caught, but he didn't care, it was true; Phil's hips were pining him down just right, and he was hard, and he smelled great, like sweat and musk and sex. 

"You feel amazing," Phil said, quietly, and leaned in to kiss him again. A soft kiss, not quite goodbye, but Clint got the message. He sighed into it, and let Phil roll away from him when it was over. 

"What are we gonna do?"

"We're going to…" Phil made an unguarded, almost baffled sound, like he had no idea what to say. "We're going to get to New York. We're going to take care of the Marshall problem. I'm going to go back to SHIELD and you…" Phil was looking at him; Clint could feel his focus, how much he wanted Clint to look back, and Clint knew that if he did he'd break, that would be it, it wouldn't even matter that they'd stopped. So he stared at the ceiling and said nothing. "And you'll get a handshake and a head start, I guess," Phil said. It was meant to be teasing, but Clint could hear an undercurrent of…something to it, sadness maybe, and he wanted Phil all the more for it. 

He got up instead. "We should get going, then."

"Yeah," Phil said. "Yeah, we should."

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> So things have gotten unexpectedly crazy busy (which is why I haven't been answering comments; I feel so bad! They're so appreciated!). I may be a little late in posting things for the next week or so. But I will try to keep up with one a day, at the least.


	16. Chapter 16

It was easier said than done. 

In between the rolling around and the kissing and the almost-fucking, Clint had managed to rip the stitches in his side. Phil had to do them again, this time without the residual benefit of Anne's drugs numbing the pain.

Clint didn't complain. Didn't even wince, as Phil smoothed down a new bandage. His fingers didn't linger, and Clint didn't thank him, and he didn't say a word as he waited for Phil to pack all their shit up, or while they cleared the motel room and made their way to the car.

*

New York was more than 900 miles and twenty hours away, and Clint fully intended to remain silent for the duration.

He stared out the window; trees and fields, horses in the distance sometimes. He tried to sleep; the car lulled him but every time he shut his eyes he could feel Phil's gaze on him. Every time he looked over, Phil’s eyes were back on the road.

He fiddled with the radio. Nothing but country and talk radio, and Clint'd had more than his share of sad songs and hot air lately. He kept searching, left it on static for a while just to have _something_ to listen to. 

Phil didn't have anything to say to that, either. Just kept driving and sneaking him concerned, wounded looks out of the corner of his eye.

Clint couldn't stand it.

"Listen," he said, after what was probably about an hour worth of awkward silence. "I got friends dropping like flies around me. 'Cause of me. 'Cause of… 'cause of _this_." He waved a hand between them.

"Oh, so that was _another_ friend of yours?" 

"Don't start with me, Coulson," Clint snapped. "It's a small world, my profession. So yeah, I'm friendly with a couple of shitty people. Truth is, I am _personally_ kinda shitty, as a person, which I gotta point out, didn't stop you from—"

"Okay," Phil said, sharp, and swerved viciously around the car in front of him and hit the gas. 

Yeah. It was going to be a long drive.

*

Phil pulled into a gas station about two hours in. He went into the store; Clint filled up the tank.

He came out a few minutes later, and found Clint behind the wheel. Clint waited for him to say something, wanted him to fucking try it, but Phil just shook his head, handed the keys over, and offered Clint a soda the same way. Powered down his window as Clint drove off. 

Clint glanced at him. The sun was over his shoulder, painting long shadows across Phil's features, but there was enough light to see that his eyes were closed, that his collar was open, that the freckles across his forehead were more obvious than they'd ever been. His hair was neat, but he looked tired, almost as tired as he'd looked the night before. 

"Eyes on the road," Phil said, though his own were still shut. He hesitated for a moment before adding: "Hawk."

Clint's laugh died in his throat as he obeyed.

*

They switched again at sundown; around eight o'clock, Phil started looking for signs for a motel. An hour later, he found one. Clint jumped out of the car the minute they got near the lobby. Clint dared him to say a fucking word about _that_ and he didn't, just tightened his mouth for a moment before he squared his shoulders and went to park the car.

Clint got them a room with one bed.

It was petty, and vindictive, and stupid, but he did it; waited for Phil to show up, took the bag he was handed, and turned on his heel before stomping off up the stairs. It was kind of hell on his stitches but he wasn't going to complain. 

The room was fine; Phil came up behind him, got one look at the single bed, sighed, and dropped his bag onto the floor. Headed for the bathroom, not bothering to put anything away first. 

Clint flopped down on the right side of the bed; he'd noticed Phil tended to take the left. He didn't bother undressing, didn't even take off his shoes, just shut his eyes, and listened to the fall of water in the other room. Couldn't hear anything but that, but it was enough. 

Phil came out in a soap-scented cloud of steam; Clint could smell it, could even feel the warmth of it, but kept his eyes shut. He didn't open them again till he heard Phil sigh, heard him walk closer. Peered through his lashes as Phil untied his boots and slipped them off his feet. They dropped to the ground and Clint turned onto his side, so his back was to Phil, at least until he walked around and to his side of the bed. 

He could hear Phil pulling the sheets and coverlet up, felt the bed shift as he got in. Clint opened his eyes; Phil's face was inches away, and he was smiling. Sort off. A little. "At least get under the covers," he said, and Clint nodded, kicked the sheets up and slipped under them. 

Phil was so close, and Clint could smell the soap on him, could only imagine how warm he must be from the shower. His hair must still be wet. His cheeks were oddly flushed and before Clint could get around to looking at his eyes, he turned over, but just to flip the lights off. He settled back, facing him; Clint could hear him breathing.

"This isn't a much better idea."

"Yeah," Clint said; it came out sharp, harsher than he'd meant it to. "Yeah, I know." 

"Okay." Phil's voice was soft, and Clint felt him reach over, wrap his hand around the back of Clint's neck. His thumb traced the edge of Clint's jaw. "We'll talk in the morning."

_Do we have to_? Clint wanted to say, but didn't. Phil's fingers brushed across his pulse as he pulled away, and Clint sighed.

*

Clint woke up on his back, side aching and head pounding. It wasn't quite morning yet: there was no light coming through the windows and he couldn't even see the ceiling above him.

Phil had stayed on his side of the bed, for the most part, but his right hand was pressed to the center of Clint's chest. His breathing was deep and steady, and Clint hazarded a look over. It wasn't really worth it: Phil was on his stomach, his face buried in the pillow. 

Clint could have moved. Should have moved. Shouldn't've have tried to fuck with Phil by getting the one bed, because all Clint wanted to do now was to reach over and nuzzle at the point between Phil's neck and his shoulder, catch his scent.

He couldn't to sleep like this. Couldn't even jerk off. Couldn't do anything but stare up at the ceiling and bring his own hand up, thread his fingers between Phil's. It wasn't terrible comfortable, he wouldn't fall asleep with his arm at that angle, but he let himself learn the feeling before turning onto his side. 

He looked at the shadows draped across Phil's face, and sighed. He was so close, they were almost touching, but Clint could see so little of him, could only feel his warmth and the callouses of his palm against Clint's own. 

Clint shut his eyes again.

*

"Why did you do it?"

Clint glanced over; they were the first words Phil had said all morning, having woken up before Clint and made his way to the car with a look on his face that did not exactly invite much discussion. The one he was wearing right now was not a hell of a lot better.

"Do what?"

Phil sighed. "Forget it. Just tell me: where you planning on coming back?"

"Of course I was." He hadn't been. Or. Well. He hadn't exactly had much of a plan. "Of _course_ I was, Coulson. I was just tryin' to—" He swallowed. "I wanted to know what we were up against. I thought I could trust her; we'd worked together in the past, she'd never—wasn't the kind of work she did. Not big jobs like this, nothin' with that kind of risk."

"We're a big job, are we?"

_We_ , Clint heard. It was strangely warming to hear him say it, but he didn't let it show. "Five million dollars worth," he offered, and Phil didn't react, except for the way his eyes widened a little. 

"How much was it for me?"

"Half a mil."

An eyebrow raise at that. "Hm," he said, and the corner of his mouth twitched. Clint almost laughed.

"Seriously?" he said. "You're jealous?"

"I'm not jealous." Phil looked over at him; his eyes had that soft, affectionate look to them again, and Clint stupidly, _stupidly_ felt himself starting to blush. "Honestly, I'm pretty impressed." 

Clint didn't know what to say to that, or at least, he didn't know what to say to that while Phil was also _looking at him like that_ , so he turned his head to stare out the window so more. "Shoulda priced you higher, anyway. You're a slippery son of a bitch when you want to be."

"Oh yeah?"

"Yeah, y'know. Sneaky. Real hard to kill."

"Apparently." 

Clint laughed. Didn't make any effort to stop himself, and when he looked back, Phil was smiling, and making no effort to hide that, either.


	17. Chapter 17

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> So, this is the chapter where they do the do. Sort of. In a limited fashion. Well, you'll see.

They stopped for the night in New Jersey. 

The idea, Clint figured, was to get a good night's sleep, make some kind of plan, switch cars, and drive into the city the next morning. 

He remembered his plan to warn Dawn they were coming, the one he hadn't thought of in almost a week, remembered all the times Coulson had been out of earshot, all the times Phil had stopped the car at a gas station and gone off for snacks. 

Too late now, he thought, watching Phil chat with the nice-looking brunette ( _Amanda_ , according to her name tag at least) at the front desk of the motel. He was down to his white shirt, suit jacket slung over his arm, and she was very, very eager to show him the informative pamphlets on the local sights, and also to tell him about the hotel bar. Clint was too tired and too busy and too pissed off to wait for her to bring up her schedule and that she’d be off in an hour. He swaggered up to the counter and leaned over it, making sure his side was pressed tight against Phil's. He gave her his nicest smile. "Hey there. How're we doing?"

"Hi," she said; her smile wavered for a minute as she looked between them, but returned full force as she handed him a key card. "You're all set. Room 206. Check out's at noon tomorrow."

"Thank you," Phil called out, as Clint dragged him off by his belt loop.

*

He didn't even let Phil put his bag down before jumping him; honestly, he felt like Phil should just be grateful he waited till the door was closed behind them.

Phil kissed back, though. Dropped his duffle bag immediately and used his now free hands to grab Clint's hips and pull him closer. He slid one hand under Clint's shirt, up Clint's back, and Clint crowded him against the wall impatiently. Phil made a low, questioning sound, and when Clint pulled off, he took a breath. 

“We should probably…move this to the bed?" he said, voice clear, but wavering a little at the end, like he wasn't sure he'd meant it as a question. Clint nodded anyway, though. He hadn't expected Phil to fight him, wouldn't have kissed him if he didn't think he'd be welcomed, but he thought there'd be a bit more pushback from Mr. This Isn’t A Good Idea. He let himself be guided back to the single bed; fell back onto it willingly, without being pushed, and Phil moved to cover him with unusual but not entirely surprising grace.

Phil was heavy on top of him, pressing him into the mattress, kissing his neck and sliding his shirt up and that was a little more surprising, because Clint hadn't exactly expected to lose control of the situation like that. He'd been the aggressor, he'd been the one planning to pin Phil to the wall and drop to his knees and give him the best blowjob he could, after which they could've gone back to acknowledging what a phenomenally stupid idea it was to get this attached.

There was stubble on Phil's cheeks and Clint _ached_ as it rubbed against his stomach, making his skin tingle. 

Phil breathed wet, panting breaths against Clint's hips. Clint looked down, reached out, ran his fingers through Phil's short, soft hair. Let his hand curl around the back of Phil's neck. 

He was desperately hard, and Phil was so close, and he looked up, suddenly. Their eyes met, and Clint almost came. Almost, _almost_ , but he wasn't a kid and had at least some measure of self-control, though not, apparently, enough to keep himself from getting into the situation to begin with. 

Phil smiled. Ducked his head again, and Clint couldn't help himself, he threaded his fingers through the dark, silky hair at the nape of his neck. It was wonderful, definitely worth the wait; Phil seemed to like it, too, nuzzling against him and pressing a quick kiss to the curve of his hip, then another to the corner of the still-healing wound on his side. Then he shifted, started kissing his way up Clint's chest, mouth grazing all of the shallow cuts in turn. Clint shut his eyes; it shouldn't've worked for him, being reminded of it, but what he couldn't help thinking of was the hotel room after, Phil's hands as they wiped him off.

Phil kissed his mouth and he sighed, hips twitching up against the solid heat of Phil's body. Phil's tongue swiped against his and he pushed back, grabbing at Phil's belt and struggling to unbuckle it.

"Wait," Phil murmured, pushing his hands away but kissing him, fiercely. "You first."

"Okay," Clint said, once he could speak; his voice was breathless and unrecognizable, and he heard himself whimper, too, as Phil knelt between his legs. Clint tried to sit up too, tried to stay close to him, but Phil pushed him back onto the mattress. 

"Stay still."

"Don't tell me what to do," he said, scrambling up automatically. Phil laughed a little, brought his hand up to cover his face as he groaned. 

"Just—" he said, dropping both hands to Clint's knees. "Just let me do this for you. Please."

Clint looked at him: his eyes were so clear, warm and concerned, and his mouth was swollen and slick, and Clint couldn't help himself, he grabbed Phil's shirt for leverage and he lunged, kissing him just once before letting himself fall back onto the bed. "Go for it," he said, trying for breezy, and Phil laughed again. 

"Fuck," he said, soft and strangely tender, for all that he wasn't looking at Clint's face anymore. He slid his hands down Clint's thighs, and grabbed him around the hips; pulled him further down the bed, and went to work on his jeans. " _Fuck_ ," he said, again, and Clint started to think he was maybe talking to himself and not aware that Clint could hear him. He wasn't about to let him know, though; who knew what else he might let slip?

Phil didn't say anything else, of course, but Clint was content to just lay back and watch him. His shirt was unbuttoned at the top and his cheeks were flushed; his mouth was open as he breathed heavily, so heavily that Clint could see his chest heaving. His hands were steady as they worked Clint's jeans open, though, and his fingers were careful but sure as they pulled out Clint's dick and stroked at him. His grip was tight, and Clint tried not to squirm, tried not to buck into it; shut his eyes for a moment only to open them at the sound of a condom being opened. 

"What're you—what's that for?"

"I was going to suck you off. If that's…" Phil's fingers twitched, and he stopped stroking at Clint's dick. "If that's…okay?"

"Of course it's—" Clint's hips twitched, and Phil got to stroking at him again. Clint sighed, letting his eyes drift closed again. "'course it's okay. But I wanna…wanna come in your mouth, if—"

"No," Phil said, firm but not unkind. Clint's eyes flickered open. "Like this or not at all, okay?”

Clint swallowed. "Okay.”

“Okay,” Phil said; he lost his rhythm for a moment and his fingers fumbled with the condom, but once Clint shut his eyes again it seemed to go better. 

Phil's mouth was warm through the latex; his tongue traced over the veins, swirled over the head, before Phil swallowed around him and kept stroking at the shaft. Clint groaned and twisted his hands in the sheets, squirmed as Phil pulled off.

“Hey,” Phil said, sounding as if he’d been choked. Which, kinda. Clint felt a nervous, desperate laugh bubbling in his chest at the thought, and tried to swallow it.

“Heeey,” he heard himself drawl, and couldn’t bear to open his eyes to find out what Phil’s reaction to _that_ might’ve been. He ended up not needing to: one of Phil’s hands found his wrist and guided it down, till his fingers were in Phil’s hair. He shuddered and Phil swallowed him down again, lapping all the more enthusiastically once Clint tugged him closer. Clint gave an experimental thrust up into his mouth; Phil groaned around him, wrapped his arms around Clint’s thighs. Stretched his throat, letting Clint in more.

It didn’t take long after that; he came with his knees slung over Phil’s shoulders, with his chest heaving, his stitches straining, his hips rolling in a last few desperate thrusts as Phil swallowed around him.

And then it was over. He lay there in silence, except for his own panting breaths and the thrum of his own blood in his ears. Eventually he registered the sound of Phil shifting, removing the condom, cleaning him up. He reached out feebly and grabbed hold of his shirt; wanted him stop moving so much, wanted him to stay, wanted him to wait.

“Just give me a sec’, okay?” he said, because he had to. Phil went very still; his eyes were hooded and his mouth was swollen, but his body was tense, until it wasn’t. He tucked himself behind Clint, wrapped his arm around Clint’s waist, and pulled him close.

“It’s fine,” Phil said, nuzzling at his temple. “I can wait.”

Clint sighed and leaned back against him; Phil’s body was welcoming, but the cloth and tiny, sharp buttons of shirt were not as pleasant against his back as Phil’s skin would’ve been. He wasn’t about to complain, though, especially once Phil started kissing the back of his neck. “Mmm,” he managed, and Phil chuckled.

“Good?”

“Uh-huh.”

Phil pressed another kiss to the side of his neck, right under his ear, and Clint shut his eyes.

*

He woke up alone and tried really, really hard not to feel surprised.

The sun hadn’t even risen yet but Phil was up, buttoning up yet another white shirt (where was he even getting them at this point?) and seemingly unaware of the fact that Clint was watching him.

“Morning,” he tried, and Phil’s hand jumped, though the rest of him seemed unaffected.

“Good morning,” Phil said, turning his back to him and ruffling through his bag. “Sorry if I woke you.”

“You didn’t,” Clint said, though he wasn’t sure. “You headed somewhere?”

“Just thought I’d get—“ Phil shook his head. “Never mind.”

“No, actually, Coulson, I _do_ fucking mind. Do you trust me or—“

“Breakfast. I was going to get breakfast. But then I realized, it’s two in the morning, so—“

“It’s two _in the morning_?”

“Yes,” Phil said, and turned around; his hands were empty, and something about his shirt looked very, very strange.

Clint sighed when he realized what it was. “Jesus Christ, Coulson,” he said, pushing the sheets off of himself (Phil must’ve covered them both up the night before), and getting off the bed. “Come here.”

“I don’t think—“

Clint rolled his eyes and walked over to him and started unbuttoning.

“What are you—“

“Wrong holes, Coulson,” he said, smirking a little. “Also,” he got to the last button. “It’s _two in the morning_.” Phil was wearing an undershirt, but it was soft, and Clint was glad to get his hands even that far, to run them up and across Phil’s chest. “And let’s face it: this is probably your— _our_ — last chance to get a decent night’s sleep for a while.”

“So?”

“So come back to bed.”

Phil looked like he was about to say something, something that Clint very much didn’t want to hear. He leaned in instead, sliding his hands around Phil’s waist and up his back. Phil let himself be kissed. Let himself be striped of his shirt and guided to the bed, pushed back onto it. Clint went to straddle him and Phil let out a sharp, pained gasp. “Okay?” Clint said, knowing it probably wasn’t, but Phil nodded, hips shifting, before he forced himself still and grabbing Clint’s hips.

“I don’t…” he started, and then winced. “I don’t think we should do this again.”

“Coulson,” Clint said, leaning over to press their foreheads together, then pulling back with a sigh. “You didn’t even do it the first time.”

He blushed at that, but nodded. “I just—I wanted you. And you seemed to—“

“I did. I _do_ ,” he said, and held back a smile at the fact that for all Phil’s words, he was still apparently comfortable with Clint straddling him, comfortable enough to have made no move to push him off. “But like hell I’m gonna beg you to let me give you a blowjob, Coulson.” Phil’s eyes shut, and his ears went bright red.

“You really shouldn’t,” he said, and Clint leaned in again.

“I won’t. But the minute you figure out what you want, man, I’ll be so happy to return the favor, okay?” Phil nodded into his shoulder, and took a deep breath. Clint could feel him tensing up again, knew that any minute now he’d be pulling away and insisting he needed to go and do _something_ else right now. “Shit, Coulson. You always this wound up after blowing a guy?”

Phil laughed, soft and bitter. “Truth be told, it’s been a while.”

“Yeah?” Clint pulled his head back, and looked carefully at Phil’s face. For once, he didn’t try to avoid Clint’s gaze. “How long?”

“Years.”

“Looking for the right person?” Clint said, because he was a dick. Phil’s eyes flickered, from embarrassment to the cool detachment he tended to fall back to when uncertain.

“Something like that,” he said, and with a firm push and a quick twist had Clint off of him and on the other side of the bed. “You were right,” he said, turning onto his side.

“I—uh—what?”

“We should get some sleep.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> As mentioned/implied, it's been a super busy week, and I missed actually two days of posting, so yay, two chapters for you all! Hopefully next week will go better and I will be able to keep up my posting schedule and be able to answer comments again. Thanks for reading!


	18. Chapter 18

Clint got almost no sleep.

What little he did was only after Phil’s breathing evened out, after he felt Phil shift, till he felt the brush of careful fingers over his hip. He glanced over his shoulder but Phil seemed truly asleep, eyes shut and lips slightly parted. He mumbled something that didn’t seem to be a word, and rubbed his thumb into Clint’s skin. Clint swallowed the lump in his throat, and turned back onto his side.

*

They switched cars the next morning: Coulson seemed to know what he was doing, drove them into a dusty, dinky used car dealership an hour out of Trenton and gladhanded the manager for a while. Clint followed, silent and somehow still exhausted, as they were shown a number of progressively shittier ten-to-twenty year old sedans. Coulson finally seemed satisfied with a dirt-brown Pontiac with miss-matched hubcaps. It was, in Clint’s opinion, a little too conspicuously plain, but Coulson had been in a shitty mood all morning and he didn’t want to test him, especially if it meant being stranded in the middle of Pittstown, New Jersey.

If he was being honest, Clint had not been a ray of sunshine himself that morning. But the time for honesty had come and gone, and sullen glowering was all he was really up for, during their slow, circuitous ride to the city.

He got the feeling Coulson thought they were being followed; was going to ask about it, but Coulson kept very dedicatedly staring only at the road ahead of them, and occasionally his rearview mirror, so Clint didn’t exactly have an opening.

It wasn't till the city skyline burst out of the horizon to their right that Coulson even deigned to speak to him, and even then it was curt: “I don’t know where I’m going.”

Clint looked over at him. “What?”

“You haven’t told me where I’m going.”

“You could’ve asked.”

“I’m asking now.”

Clint wanted to growl in frustration. He didn’t, but it was a close thing. “Take the tunnel. It’s in Queens.” Coulson raised his eyebrows at that and Clint huffed. “ _What_?”

“Nothing,” Coulson said, and veered off the road.

“What the _fuck_ , Coulson?!”

Coulson was turning off the car and unbuckling his seat belt. “You drive stick, right?” he said, opening his door.

“Yeah, bet you’d love to find out,” Clint grumbled as he opened his own door and headed to the driver’s side. He’d manage, anyway. He was going to be a dick about it, though, bitch at Coulson for yet again refusing to stay on the road, but he looked up as Coulson walked passed him and realized he couldn’t. Coulson was looking at him for once, giving him a careful, hopeful look, as if he meant something with the whole “here, you drive” gesture, something that Clint was entirely missing. Clint ducked his head and got in the car.

Coulson rolled his window down almost immediately, leaned back in his seat, and tapped his fingers against the dashboard; they left trails in the dust, but he seemed happy, relaxed as he kept time with something twangy and familiar on the radio.

_And it ain't no use in turning on your light, babe, I'm on the dark side of the road._

Clint dragged his eyes away from Phil Coulson and onto the jagged skyline stretched before them.

*

They crossed the bridge before noon; traffic was shitty, and it took another thirty minutes to reach 21st Street, but then the cars thinned out. It occurred to Clint, looking at the quiet streets, the lights in tightly-packed row houses, that it was Saturday. Well, at least she’d probably be in.

He left the car about a block away. Coulson followed him, not asking any questions, as they turned the corner and the buildings shifted from shingled homesteads with tidy little yards to grey warehouses.

“Wait,” Clint said, and Coulson did, standing at the corner as Clint ducked into the corner shop and bought a packet of gum, two bottles of Dr. Pepper, and a single, individually wrapped chocolate-covered cherry. He was halfway out the door before doubling back to get another, which he tossed to Coulson as he walked by him. He didn’t even have to look back to see that he caught it; of course he did, and thanked Clint, and didn’t even looked pissed as Clint just shook his head and kept walking.

It was a relief to finally get to the right building; tucked between two cavernous film studios, it’d once been a warehouse for some kind of clothing manufacturer, and the scraps of old cloth meant it’d always had kind of a musty smell whenever Clint had come by. But there was something comforting about the splintery wooden door, deceptively simple brass lock, and scrawl of graffiti. He pushed back an inconspicuous scrap of wood and found the small black button that, when pushed, seemed to do absolutely nothing.

“You’re not seeing any of this,” he said, not looking back.

“Seeing what?” said Coulson, and Clint would have rolled his eyes at him being a smart-ass, but the heavy brass lock clicked open just about then, and he was too busy getting the door open to do it.

“Try not to be so…” Clint glanced back behind him; Coulson looked like the worse kind of government asshole right now, which was probably Clint’s fault. He should’ve told him to change, should’ve loaned him some clothes, should’ve backed off enough that he hadn’t felt the need to resort to his professional armor to deal with him. “You.”

“I’ll do my best,” Phil’s tone was dry and amused as he followed Clint inside.

The cracking linoleum floor tiles shifted under their feet as they walked past the old clothing racks lined the warehouse floor in silence. Clint went past the first stairway and sought out the darker, dingier one. Two floors down, they hit the steel door. Coulson practically walked into him from behind before Clint could knock on it; his night vision was apparently not as great as Clint’s was, but he wasn’t going to hold it against him.

Clint knocked on the door; it swung open immediately, and he had to blink at the sudden brightness of halogen lighting. It smelled like clean linen and sea salt in there, which was frankly inexplicable. There was a row of five computers to his right, and a girl with a thick, dark bun sitting in front of them.

“So,” she said. “I kinda fucked up.”

“Yeah, kinda.”

“Still.” She turned her chair around. “No harm done, right?”

“How do you figure?”

“No one’s killed you yet.”

Clint had to laugh as he dropped his plastic bag onto one of the counters. “Dawn, I’ve been shot, stabbed, tortured, chased through two different countries—“

“Details…” she said, waiving her hand as she stood up. “Guess I kinda owe you one, though.” She glanced over at Coulson and her lip curled. “This him?”

“Yeah.”

“Huh,” she said, and walked away. “No accounting for taste.”

Clint glanced over at him; Phil had an odd look on his face, but he didn’t seem particularly insulted, so he was willing to let it lie.

“About that one you owe me—“

“Yeah, yeah,” she said, and popped back out of the darkness. “You’re in trouble.”

“No shit.”

“Nah, but you’re in _deep_ trouble, Hawk. Or should I say…” she walked back to her computer, and suddenly the wall to the left of them glowed with a picture of him from about three years ago, and more importantly… “Clinton Francis Barton?"

“What the hell is that?”

“Your FBI file,” that was Phil, and Clint turned to glare at him only to find he was still looking at the wall.

“I don’t have an FBI file.”

“Yeah, except you totally do. It’s pretty out of date, but…” she typed something, and another window sprang up, with a list of dates and a couple of initials next to each. “Someone was looking at it last week.”

“ _Who_?” he said, without thinking about it, and only realized what a mistake it was when he saw Phil’s expression of concern.

“I don’t know,” Dawn said, and Clint felt Phil’s hand on his shoulder. He glanced back; Phil’s face was serious but his eyes were soft.

“Not a fed,” he said, tone strangely soothing. “Probably not SHIELD either, it’d be logged.”

“They coulda had it scrubbed,” Dawn cut in, and Phil winced, which meant it was true.

“That requires a formal request. It wouldn’t go through that quickly unless—“

“Unless it was a matter of national security or an ongoing inter-agency emergency. Right?”

Phil winced again. “It’s possible, but the FBI is usually not that—“

Clint could not have cared less about inter-agency pettiness right now. “Shut up. Both of you. How did…how’d they—“

“Your fingerprints are on file,” she said, matter-of-fact. “So’s your DNA. Your file probably got dinged off of one or the other.”

He spun out of Phil’s grip. “My DNA’s on file?”

“I don’t know,” he said, glancing back at the projection. His face said otherwise. “It seems likely.“

“ _Fuck_ ,” he said, and took another step away from. “ _Fuck_ , Coulson. I have—“ he turn around, and went straight back out the door.

He didn't go far; there was a metal staircase he got halfway up before Coulson caught up with him, gently pressing the palm of his hand to the small of Clint's back.

"Hawk—"

"Oh, fuck that," Clint said, spinning around to face him. "You know my name."

Phil blinked at him. "Clint. Listen to me. This isn't SHIELD."

"Oh yeah? You sure about that?"

" _Yes_."

"How?" he said, and Phil tilted his head.

"What do you mean?"

"I _mean_ ," he stepped down, moved closer, till he had Phil crowded up against the rusty stair-rail. "How do you know it's not SHIELD? How the _fuck_ do you know? 'Cause either you're lying to me now, and you _don't_ , or you've _been_ lying to me, and you do, because you've been keepin' in touch this whole time. So which is it, _Agent Coulson_?"

"I'm not lying to you."

"Prove it."

"The Director doesn't allow that kind of request unless I'm the one making it. He doesn't trust anyone else to do it."

Clint laughed. "You're that important, and he wouldn't do it to try and find you?"

"No," Phil said. "And he wouldn't do it himself. Going to the FBI's not his style, at least not through the—-"

"Through the proper channels," Clint finished. "It wouldn't get logged?"

"There'd be no trace," he said, and Clint nodded, felt himself relaxing, which was dumb as shit. He had no reason to trust Coulson, no reason to feel better thinking he could; his problems went way beyond whether Phil was lying to him or not. He stepped back, far enough that he could brace himself on the opposite stair rail. 

"Then who…?"

"I think you'd know better than I do," Phil said, and something about his tone prickled at Clint.

"What the hell does _that_ mean?"

Phil frowned. "I think there's something you haven't told me."

"Coulson, there is a metric _shit-ton_ of things I have not _told_ you. Try and be more fucking specific when you're accusing me of something, okay?"

Phil narrowed his eyes. "When's the last time you were arrested?"

"Never," Clint said. "I've never been arrested." It was a lie, it was _obviously_ a lie, and hell, Coulson probably knew it was a lie. But he was going to stick to it till he had reason to say otherwise. Phil sighed, and Clint snapped. "Don't fucking do that. You don't know shit about me, Coulson. If I'd been arrested, d'you think I'd still be out here? Think I'd be so shocked I have a fucking _FBI record_? I'm _good_ at what I do. I don't get fucking _caught_."

"They've got that info on you from somewhere. Birth date, social security number..."

Clint shrugged. "I wasn't born off the grid, Coulson. I was just some stupid kid in foster care, there's bound to be records of all that shit."

"That picture was pretty recent."

"Is this an interrogation?" Clint said, forcing a laugh. 

"If this was an interrogation you'd be giving me answers."

Clint pushed off from the railing. "What the hell does that mean? 'We have ways of making you talk', huh?"

"For _fuck's sake_ ," Phil snapped at him. "No, Barton. I'm not going to _make_ you talk. But if you're going to keep things from me, if you're going to compromise this operation—"

"This isn't a fucking _operation_ , Coulson. This is suicide run. You and me against a goddamn criminal empire. We got one chance at this, maybe we don't even have that. So I'm sorry if it doesn't meet your _expectations_ , but that is all we got." 

"We're going to die—"

"You think I don't know that?"

"We're going to die _if you don't trust me_."

"Do you trust me?"

Phil stared at him. His eyes were wide, and he looked genuinely surprised at the question. Clint wasn't sure why. "Yes. Of course I do."

"You're an idiot," Clint said, and shot up. "You're an _idiot_." He paced a bit, and then turned around. "And you know what else? I don't even think you're pissed at me."

"I never said I was pissed at you."

"God, you're such a sanctimonious ass. You're pissed at yourself, 'cause you want to fuck me but you won't, and it's _killing_ you, 'cause you're so fucking _ashamed_ of—" He watched Phil's eyes narrow, his jaw clench, but the man stayed where he was. "Of what? Of wanting me? _Fuck_ you, Coulson. Just go straight to fucking hell." 

Phil stood and stared at him instead, and for a moment, Clint thought he was going to hit him. He wouldn't've been surprised, he kind of deserved it, he kind of wanted it, wanted some kind of acknowledgement that Phil gave even that much of a shit. It wasn't forthcoming, and Clint ended up just shaking his head, turning around, and stomping back down the stairs.


	19. Chapter 19

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Clint finds out that at least one of his friends doesn't want to kill him.

Dawn was back in front of her screens and didn't even look up as Clint stepped back into her room.

"So are we square now?"

"Nope."

"Damn," she said, spinning around. "You want something dishy on your spook boyfriend?"

Clint held back a growl. "Maybe later. Could you trace who rented out an apartment for me?"

Dawn rolled her eyes. "Duh-doy," she said. "How far back?"

"A couple of weeks ago."

"Cake," she said, snapping her fingers. "Gimme the address."

*

It was a dead end, as he'd kind of expected it to be: a dummy corporation, incorporated in Delaware, obviously a front for the Marshalls but not in any kind of traceable way.

Coulson came in after a couple of minutes and watched them in silence, and then cleared his throat. Dawn turned to look at him, as Clint became _incredibly_ fascinated by the financial statements of an invented construction company. 

"I know that building," he said. 

"It's a dead end," Clint snapped.

"I figured," Coulson's voice was calm. "But the cafe across the street. They had a habit of using it for meetings. Always paid in cash."

"Can't trace cash," Dawn said. "That's kinda the point of cash."

"Maybe they forgot one day."

"Seriously? You want me to comb through a month's worth of rich people bullshit transactions in case one of them's a little hinky?"

"How long would it take you?"

She shrugged. "Not the issue. Just can't stand to see people spending fifteen dollars on a glass of lemonade, y'know? It’s damn wasteful, is what—"

"How long, Ms. Delgado?" 

Her eyes widened. "Half an hour. Tops. How did you—"

"Your reputation precedes you," Coulson said, all pleasant menace, and Clint couldn't help be a little impressed, even as he could tell Dawn was freaking out. 

"We should talk," he said. "Give Dawn some peace and quiet." Phil glanced over at him. His face was unreadable, but he nodded.

*

Phil headed back to the stairs, and sat down; didn't even look up as Clint went to join him. Their bodies aligned, shoulder to hip to thigh, and Clint focused on the wall ahead of them.

"So I’ve got a brother." Phil didn't react to at all, so Clint continued. "We were…we were pretty young when our parents died. And we got mixed up in a lot of shit, but uh—" He shrugged. "Barney, that's my brother, he thought he could…fix it. Did some work with the FBI. It—" he looked down. "It didn't work out well."

"Where is he now?"

"Does it matter?"

"If your prints were on file, then—"

"They're not. They weren’t, anyway. We made sure."

"You and your brother?"

"I can't—" Clint swallowed. "I can't tell you everything, Coulson." He shook his head. "As much as I trust you. It's not my shit to tell."

"Okay. But I do have to know: would your brother try to come after you? To protect you or—"

Clint laughed; he couldn't help it, just at the thought of Barney trying to protect him now, after everything. "Doubt it. He's been dead for almost a year."

"Clint," Phil said, soft, and Clint could feel that he was half-turned toward him.

"I don't care. In fact, I'm…" he shrugged to himself. Told the truth, because screw it, he'd lied to Phil enough already today. "I'm even kinda glad. He did some bad shit, got people hurt."

"People like you."

Clint didn't answer that. Phil seemed to get the picture, and hesitated, just a second, before he eased his hand onto Clint's arm, and gave him a careful squeeze.

"I don't have any brothers," he said. Clint glanced at him; he'd apparently discovered just how fascinating the wall was. 

"You don't strike me as the only child type, Coulson." He really didn't; he was too obviously used to taking care of people, much too eager to do it. 

"I have a…a half sister. We don't really get along," he glanced over at Clint, who had nothing to say to that. "My father died when I was a kid. I was...I don't remember him much. My mom died a couple years after that. My stepdad was a good guy, took care of me anyway. Never treated me like less of son, but it’s been..." he leaned against Clint a little. "Well. Haven't seem him or my sister in years."

"They don't talk to you at all?" It was strangely painful to imagine, that Phil'd gone through a whole life with a family that was real and solid and normal, only to lose it. 

"Nope," Phil said, deceptively casual. "They're still my—still my next of kin, officially. So if I…"

"If you die. They'll get notified." 

Phil nodded. "They don't know what I do, though." 

"What do you do?" Clint said, mostly to hear what he'd say. Phil looked away.

"I get people killed, mostly. Sometimes I try to help them. Sometimes, I put the bad guys away. But mostly—"

Clint pressed up a little tighter against him, and, encouraged by Phil's sigh, eased his head on Phil's shoulder. "You haven't gotten me killed."

"You're really good at taking care of yourself." Which was a blatant, stupid lie, but Clint appreciated it, and leaned over to kiss him anyway. Phil tasted like the chocolate from earlier, and after a moment, he kissed back, reached over to cup Clint’s chin and stroke his cheek. It was a sweet, gentle kiss that went on just long enough that Clint didn't feel cheated. 

The screech of the ancient intercom startled them apart. "You guys done necking?" 

Clint scrambled up, trying to find the cameras, if only to flip her off. "We weren't—"

"Yeah, don't care. Get back down here." 

The intercom screeched again as it shut off. Clint sighed, and offered his hand to help Phil up. Phil took it, held on for a few seconds longer than necessary, then pulled away and headed down the stairs.

*

"Caroline Zissner?" Clint said, not even trying to keep the doubt out of his voice. "Thirty-five, school-teacher, three kids? You think this is the secret account of a multi-million—"

"Billion," Phil said.

" _Billion_ dollar black-market king pin?" he glanced at Phil. "Queen pin?"

"Leader," Phil offered.

"Sure. You think this is it?"

Dawn rolled her eyes. "I _know_ this is it."

"How?"

"Fifty thousand in her bank account. Keeps up with her mortgage payments. Perfect credit."

"So she's responsible," Phil said, sounded almost insulted. 

"A single mom? A _public school teacher_? And not, in any way, a mysterious heiress of some kind?" Dawn smirked. "Also, there's the fact I found her death certificate. From three years ago." 

Clint looked at Phil, who shrugged. "Okay. So now what?"

"So, that money's getting in the bank somehow. It's not wired in. Last few deposits have been at a HSBC branch in lower Manhattan. I got you the surveillance tapes for the bank for one hour before and after the transactions this month; everything else's been wiped." One of the computers spit out a CD, which Dawn tucked into a waiting case and handed it to Phil. "At least one of you knows what your looking for, right?" 

"I have some idea," Phil said, which was a surprise. To Clint at least, if not to Dawn. 

"Yeah, I bet you do," she said, side-eyeing him pretty severely as she forced a pile of printouts into Clint's hands. “We even yet, Hawk?”

“Getting there,” he said, handing the papers over to Phil, who made a big show of looking them over. Clint took a step closer to her, turned his back to Phil, and lowered her voice. “You got somewhere to be?”

Her eyes dropped to the ground. “As a matter of fact, I do.” 

“Where?” She looked around him and over to Phil, then raised her eyebrows. “He’s not—“

“He is. And he knows my _name_ , Hawk. And you _brought_ him here, you think he’s not gonna come back when—“

“He’s _not_.”

“You can promise me that?” Clint didn’t have an answer for that, and Dawn nodded, satisfied. “Then I’m out of here, dude. Nice knowing you, best of luck, but, y’know. Don’t let the door hit you on the way out.”

Clint wanted to nod, to tell her it was all right, and that he understood, and that he wanted the best for her. Instead, he found himself seeking out Phil's reaction: his face had gotten very, very blank, and turned away when he saw Clint looking. 

Clint smiled. "Take care of yourself," he said, and went in for the hug. She hugged back, tight, and rested her forehead on his shoulder for just a second before she pulled away.

"Back at you," she said, turning back to her computer screens. "Y'all can let yourselves out, right? I gotta pack my shit up, too."

Clint nodded, and grabbed Phil's arm before he could say what he was obviously _dying_ to say about it.

He went, but he didn't look happy about it, and by the time they got back to the car he looked like he was going to explode. 

"Go for it," Clint said, as Phil turned the car on, and Phil looked at him. "I know you want to say something. Just say it."

Phil just shook his head as he drove off, and Clint sighed.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Another short chapter, and late again! Alas! But the next chapter's going to be super full of exposition so...you can all look forward to that!


	20. Chapter 20

To Clint's surprise, they didn't head straight to Manhattan. Phil crossed the Creek into Brooklyn instead, looking like he knew where he was going but was maybe a little shaky as to how to get there. He didn't do anything as prosaic as stopping to ask for directions, obviously, but he was a little more hesitant taking turns than usual, and he looked positively relieved to see a boring block of red-brick apartments that had clearly seen better days. 

He got out of the car without so much glancing at Clint, clearly expecting him to follow. Clint barely even thought about it before he did, grabbing the bags and trotting after him. He reached the door just as Phil pushed the buzzer; a young man's voice came through the intercom. "What?"

"It's Phil." Clint raised his eyebrows; Phil just shook his head, and Clint didn't get to say anything else before the door gave an angry buzz and unlocked.

It was a six floor walk-up, because naturally, and Clint waited till they were on the third floor before saying anything.

"This isn't a safe house, right?"

"Not exactly," Phil said, like that made any sense, and kept going up the stairs.

They hit the fifth floor; Phil ducked out of the stairwell and into the hallway, still expecting Clint to follow him without explanation, which wouldn't have been so bad except that Clint found himself doing it. There were two doors, one close to the stairs, the other parallel to it; Phil had a key to the close one, and waved Clint in before flipping on the lights.

Clint wasn't sure what he was expecting, but the cozy wooden furniture, squashy looking couch, and wide-screen tv wasn't it. There was a kitchen in the distance, with a green refrigerator that looked about Clint's age, if not Phil's. The walls were a soft blue, and it smelled _clean_ , like someone had been in there recently with a can of pinesol at the least, not at all like the stagnate air of abandonment that tended to permeate safe houses. 

"What is this?" he said, dropping his bag on the floor.

"My apartment." He spun around; Phil gave him a hesitant smile. 

"No," Clint said, slowly. "'cause I've seen your apartment. It's in midtown."

Phil's smile wavered. "I may have a couple of things to tell you."

Clint cocked his head. He tried to keep his voice even. "Oh yeah?"

"Yeah. But you should—if you want—you should sit down." Clint did. Phil hesitated for a moment, then headed to the kitchen, where Clint could see him bustling around, removing two water bottles from the refrigerator; nothing else seemed to be in there. Clint watched him walk over, and have another obvious moment of indecision when it came to deciding where to sit. There weren't a lot of options, and he finally sat on the couch, but about one cushion over. He sat there for a while, staring at the two water bottles in his hand.

"So…?" 

Phil seemed to snap awake. He offered Clint one of the bottles as he spoke, very quickly. "So, I knew."

"You…knew…?" Clint took the water and unscrewed the top. "You knew what?"

"That Marshall was looking for someone to take me out."

"Why?" 

"I'm one of two people at SHIELD who knows where Harriet is. If something were to happen to me, especially if I disappeared, she'd have to be moved. Others would have to get involved, including the mole."

"You said SHIELD didn't have a mole."

"I lied," Phil didn't even bother to look ashamed about it. "I lied, when I met you."

"And a bit more since then, huh?"

Phil ignored him. "I was the bait. We—I was hoping to catch anyone who tried to take a shot, trace them back to her organization. Set up the midtown apartment, enough security to not look suspicious, bulletproof glass, bad sight lines—"

"It wouldn'ta worked."

"I know," Phil said. "I didn't account for you. You could've killed me at any time. I still don't understand why you didn't."

Clint blinked at him. It shouldn't have hurt to hear that; it was honest, and in a way, Clint didn't fully understand himself. 

"Guess I just didn't want to," he said, and leaned back. "So what now?"

"Same plan as before. If you want to go through with it."

"We didn't really have a plan, Coulson. Beyond finding a needle in a haystack, then following it back to the haystack and maybe setting it on fire." As a metaphor, it was probably a little lacking, but Phil seemed to get what he meant. 

"Fair enough," Phil said, as he stood up and walked back to his bag. He returned with the CD Dawn had burned them, and an improbably slim laptop in tow.

“You been carrying that all this way?” Clint couldn’t keep the accusation out of his tone; Phil seemed unconcerned. 

“It’s not bugged," he said, turning it on.

“Sure about that?”

“Yes,” Phil’s tone went all kinds of sharp and intractable; not so unconcerned after all, and Clint backed off. Phil slipped the disc inside eventually, and the grainy security tape from the first of the month (if the caption could be trusted) cued up. 

The footage was unremarkable. Phil fast-forwarded through most of it, pausing occasionally; Clint ended up peering over his shoulder as he did, and Phil turned it in his lap to give Clint a better view. 

"Wait," he said, about half a second after Phil had already paused it. He pretended not to notice that. "I know him." He pointed at familiar, broad frame. "He's Marshall's muscle."

"Odd for her to use him as an errand boy, then," Phil said, zooming in. It was definitely Mr. Mountain, though, in all his scowling glory. "She might be short-staffed."

"Well, we know she does contract out," Phil looked at him, and he gave a little wave. "I don't know. Maybe she's paranoid."

"Maybe," Phil said, and started the tape up again. 

"What are you doing?"

"Seeing if he shows up again. Maybe we can figure out a pattern, be there to meet him the next time."

"You want us to stake out a bank?"

Phil sighed. "This is the best plan I've got right now, Barton. Without access to facial recognition software, I can't even get a name for this guy, much less an address or a license plate."

"You didn't think of that earlier?"

"I thought your tech might be a little more accommodating," he said, and went back to scanning. Clint crossed his arms in front of his chest and joined him.

*

In the end, there was no pattern, but at least Mr. Mountain showed up two other times. It seemed at least an even bet that the next time _someone_ made a deposit, it'd be him. Staking the place out wasn't the worst idea, as long as they could find a good vantage point.

The more pressing problem, of course, was the fact that it was six o'clock in the afternoon, and the bank wouldn't open till nine the next morning. And they were in Phil's apartment, which quite obviously did not have a guest room. 

"I could—" Phil stopped short as Clint glanced over at him, then swallowed. "I could take the couch?"

Clint sighed. "For fuck's _sake_ , Coulson."

"Fine, you can take the couch," Phil stood up, a little abruptly, but managed to catch the laptop before it fell to the floor. "There's nothing in the fridge. I'm going to get some dinner."

"Wait," Clint said, grabbing Phil's wrist. Phil stilled. "You're just gonna leave me here? Alone?"

Phil shrugged. "What exactly am I supposed to be afraid of you doing?"

"I don't know, bolting? Stealing your shit?"

"You could've bolted in Peru. And none of my good shit's here, so…" he shook out of Clint's grasp. "Do you want anything?"

"I could come with you," Clint said, not really thinking about it. Phil put the laptop down, carefully, on the coffee table, and stared for a moment.

"Okay?" he said, and then squared his shoulders. "Okay. Let's go."

*

No one noticed them.

Clint wasn't sure why he was surprised, except that he had kind of figured that, if Phil considered this his place, his neighborhood, there was sure to be at least _someone_ around who recognized him. 

There didn't seem to be; no good-neighbor friendly nods, no waves from storeowners. New Yorkers did tend toward unfriendly, but within neighborhoods like this, at least in Clint's experience, they did notice who was around regularly more often than not and made allowances. They wouldn't help you move or anything, but they'd at least be kind of sorry if you got stabbed in the street. 

Not that Clint was speaking from experience. Or anything.

Phil's hand pressed into the small of his back to guide him around a corner, and _that_ got an eyebrow-raise from some guy pushing a broom back and forth in front of a storefront. Clint resisted the urge to flip him off; Phil's hip bumped his as if he knew what Clint was thinking, and Clint looked over at him. He was smiling, a tiny, charming, half-smile.

"Greek?" he said, and Clint nodded, and found himself being directed into a tidy little hole-in-the-wall type of place. The one other guy in the place, probably the host/waiter/chef all in one, gave Phil a curt nod and pointed at a table; Phil shook his head and walked to another. The One Man Band scowled and threw up his hands, but brought a candle over to their table and poured them both glasses of red wine, then threw a basket of bread on their table.

Clint had to ask: "Friend of yours?" 

"I think he's missed me," Phil said, seemingly serious, but Clint caught the spark in his eyes. 

Dinner was great: olive oil with the bread, lamb kabobs, more of the dry red wine that showed up without having been asked for. They waited for dessert and Clint couldn't help it, had to push the candle aside and lean over the table. "I have to ask you something," he said, and Phil leaned in, looking confused. 

"Okay?"

"Are you married?"

Phil sat back. "You know I'm not married."

"I know what your files says. But I'm still askin'."

"No," Phil said, eyes serious. "I'm not married."

"With someone? Maybe a big, blond douchebag?"

"I have literally no idea what you're talking about, Barton."

Clint frowned. "I was watching your fake place for two weeks, Coulson." 

It seemed to take Phil a few seconds, but then he realized, and blushed. "That wasn't—I didn't—no. No, I'm not with anyone. Why are you—"

"If I kiss you right now, will you have to burn this place as your favorite restaurant?" 

It caught Phil off guard, as it was intended to, and he ducked his head before answering. "No," he said. "I've brought dates here before."

Now it was Clint's turn to freeze. "Oh," he managed, and Phil looked up at him. 

"Yeah." They stared at each other for a while, then Phil's mouth twitched. "So are you going to kiss me or not?"

"Asshole," Clint said, grinning, as he leaned over.

*

For all of thirty minutes, everything was perfect: dessert, honey-sweet and flaky as hell, came and went; Mr. Grumpy brought the check and with it, a cracked, but sincere, smile; they walked out, not hand in hand, but shoulder to shoulder. Clint resisted the temptation to back Phil up against one of the buildings and kiss him for real, on the assumption that when they got back to Phil's apartment, they would keep on pretending this could work, and he'd have a much better time doing that somewhere with a bed and no concerns for public indecency laws.

Phil grinned at him, like he was thinking the same thing, and Clint was about to ask him what he was so happy about when a flash of red in the corner of his eye had him tensing up before he even realized why. It was because he had that it hurt so much when Phil pushed him to the ground behind a delivery van. He didn't even get a chance to complain, over the sound of a store window shattering behind them. 

"Stay the _fuck down, Barton_ ," he heard Phil say. Clint shoved him away, rolled to his knees and slightly out of the van's zone of protection. Another shot whizzed by his shoulder, broadly (going about a mile wide, to be honest), which could only mean one thing: fucking _Marquez_ , and Marshall must _really_ be scraping the bottom of the barrel at this point. It was insulting, is what it was. He scooted back toward Phil.

A shot hit frame of the van, which was a forest-green monstrosity, and Clint held out his hand. Phil handed him a gun (his Glock, _where the hell had he been carrying it_?) without a word. "Did you see where he was?"

"Over the 7-Eleven."

"Left or right window?"

"Left," Phil said. "You're bleeding."

Clint glanced down. He'd scrapped his hand. "I'm fine," he said, and waited: knowing Marquez and how phenomenally dumb he was, the guy would come rushing back down stairs any minute now, he'd just have to hear him over the approaching police sirens.

"There's something else." He glanced over at Phil, whose eyes were on the rooftops across the street from them. " _Someone_ else. I saw movement right before you—"

"We're not going to worry about that right now."

"We're not?"

"Anyone up there coulda killed us by now," he said. "So no. We're not." 

"Bar—" A door behind them slammed open and Clint darted out, took aim, and shot, all before Phil could finish, "—ton." 

Clint ducked back and grinned at him. "Ready to run?" he said. 

Phil rolled his eyes and hoisted himself up. "Ready as I'm going to be." 

Clint laughed, suddenly alight with adrenaline and affection.

"That's the spirit," he said, and took the hand Phil was offering him. 

Didn't let go of him as they ran, ducking into the nearest subway stop, which Phil thankfully knew to be around the corner. Clint handed him back his gun as they went down the stairs, and Phil took it, tucking it back away into the dark and mysterious recesses of his jacket, from which he also removed a handkerchief, which he offered to Clint in exchange. 

They took the Q, and Phil spent the forty-minute ride to midtown very dedicatedly picking gravel out of Clint's hand and apologizing for not having better tools to do it; Clint spent the time coming down from the rush of Phil wanting to kiss him, the rush of getting shot at, and the rush of running with Phil's hand in his. 

He knew better than to look Phil in the eye at the moment, and instead cast his gaze around the subway car. It was empty, except for a thin, trendy looking guy who seemed entirely underwhelmed by their display. Clint glanced back at Phil, whose careful fingers were now just stroking his wrist. 

His palm stung, and back ached, and the wound in his side was starting to throb again. But it didn’t hurt, not really, and for a moment, everything was perfect again.

Clint couldn't even bring himself to care that it wouldn't last.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This is probably the fluffiest chapter in this entire fic and it still has a(n implied) body count. Oh, well.


	21. Chapter 21

They watched the bank for three days, rotating between a park across the street, a sub shop next door, and a Starbucks down the block. Phil wore a dark t-shirt, dark jeans, and a baseball cap shading his face; Clint wore sunglasses, and the same shit he'd been wearing when they'd had to ditch their gear in Phil's apartment. Each day, after closing time, they went back to the over-priced, tourist-stuffed hotel a block from Times Square, tried to come up with a better plan, and slept in the two separate single beds Clint’d almost had to blow the desk clerk for.

On day three, he lifted a cellphone from a douchebag who'd been quite content to jabber away into it while ordering his coffee; he waited till Phil was in the shower that night before using it, typing out a quick, _where r u? - H_ to a number he'd long-since memorized. The almost instantaneous _**you know where i am**_ was not especially helpful, because no, he did not. 

_wht r u waitin 4_

He didn't get any response to that till the next morning, when he happened to glance at the phone while Phil was pretending to read a book. 

_**haven't been hired**_. Clint took a breath. Swallowed. And then the phone buzzed in his hand; Phil looked up, and Clint forced a too-innocent smile as he read the new message. _**yet**_. 

_warn me_ , he typed, under the table. No response came. _?_ he added; nothing. _please_. She didn't respond to that, either, and the next time he tried ( _u owe me_ ), the message bounced back to him. He waited till Phil went to the bathroom, before taking the opportunity to step outside and throw the damn phone as hard as he could into the street. 

That night, not long before midnight, he forwent his hard-earned single bed and slid in next to Phil; Phil woke up instantly, but said nothing, just wrapped his arm around Clint's waist and pressed a dry kiss to his forehead.

It wasn't till day five that they and any luck: Mr. Mountain, dressed in a very poorly fitting suit and tie, skulked into the building looking as obvious as possible. Clint slid his eyes to Phil, who was frowning, seemingly at the crossword in front of him. He wrote something on the newspaper, and slide it across the table.

TRAP? it read, in neat block letters

Clint brought his coffee to his lips. "Uh-huh," he murmured, and Phil tapped his pen against the table in acknowledgement. 

Phil then stood up, which was _not_ part of the plan, of _any_ plan. 

"What are you—"

"Trust me," he said, and strode off into the bank, meaning that Clint couldn't run over and tackle him without causing even more of disturbance. Meaning he had to sit there, back to the entrance of the bank, sipping at his coffee like he gave a shit about it, for what felt like hours.

Phil slid back into the seat in front of him after what was probably only five minutes, and Clint could see his shit-eating grin even through the shade of his baseball cap.

"Do I even want to know?" he said, and Phil chuckled. 

"I slipped a tracker into his wallet."

There were so many things there Clint could not even process: Phil, getting close to a guy who could very easily have snapped his neck; Phil, getting close enough to said guy to steal his wallet; Phil, spending long enough close to said guy to remove said wallet, slip in a tracker, slip the wallet back, and then walk out, and stick around, in full line of sight to the damn bank. Also: "Where the _fuck_ did you get a tracker?"

"My apartment."

"You brought a _tracker_ from your apartment with you?" He had to remind himself to keep his voice low, and it still came out as an angry hiss. 

"No one knows about it but me, and it has to be manually activated. The feed goes to a private device, not my computer. It's fine." 

"And you thought of this plan, when?"

"Last night," Phil said, and for the first time, he looked a little less certain. He reached over for his newspaper as Clint stared at him. "Sort of."

Clint sighed. "What was the original version of this plan?"

"I put the tracker on you. In case—"

" _Fuck_ , Phil," he said, and noticed that a woman typing assiduously on her laptop was giving him a very dirty look. He scowled back, threw a twenty on the table, and grabbed Phil's wrist. 

"Barton—" 

"Shut up," he said, dragging him around the corner and into the hollow of doorway and pushing him against the frame. "None of this is about _me_. After all the shit I've gone through for you, Coulson? You’re not going to get yourself fucking _killed_ because—I'm done in the States, you get that? I'm _fucking done_. So you're _not_ —You're not gonna fucking come after me if something happens. And you _especially_ don't come up with plans about it on the fly, just 'cause I…"

"Decide to crawl into bed with me?"

"Exactly!" he said, and Phil looked painfully frustrated at him, but Clint didn't give a fuck. "None of that matters, okay?"

"No," Phil said, and pulled out of his grasp. "Not okay." He started to walk away, and yet again, Clint had to chase after him. 

"What? _What_? You _fucking owe me_."

"Yeah, I fucking do," Phil spun around, and Clint didn't stop in time, which brought them just about nose to nose. "I owe you not to think like that. It matters. You matter." Clint's mouth dropped open, and Phil nodded at him. "I have to get the receiver."

Clint blinked himself back into action. "Where is it? You got _another_ apartment out there somewhere?”

"Nope," Phil said, and there was a little smile there, and Clint wanted to kiss him so fucking much he had to take a step back.

*

It was a tree.

It was a fake fucking tree in fucking Central Park, full of guns, trackers, the monitor, and a _fucking tac suit_. 

Because of course there was.

*

Phil bought a cheap fold-up map at the hotel gift shop; they spread it out across what had been Clint's bed, and try to recreate Mr. Mountain's journey: from the bank to New Jersey to the West Village, strangely. At the moment, he seemed to be staying put there.

"Probably where he's living," Clint said, and Phil nodded distractedly, chewing at the tip of his pen. "What do you think? Back to New Jersey in the morning?"

"Mm. Probably," Phil seemed to be thinking about something else, checking out the flat, glowing screen of his receiver. Eventually, he put it down, and started to fold up the map. "Yes. We should go early. Make sure our friend is still in the city, first, then just get the lay of the land."

"Sounds like a plan," Clint said, watching him fiddle with his pen, the map, the receiver. Finally, he reached out, hooked his finger in one of Phil's belt loops. Phil froze, but let himself be reeled in. 

"C'mere," Clint said, dropping his hands to bracket Phil's waist. 

Phil looked him straight in the eye, in a way that Clint honestly found pretty disconcerting.

"Where else would I go?" he said, pressing both his palms against Clint's chest. Clint wasn't sure if that was out of the urge to touch him or the need to keep him at a distance. He didn't want to find out. "Out for some air?" Phil said, and Clint grinned, maybe a little too broadly.

"Well, could always go track down the big guy and get what we need out of him now. I hear you've…" Clint shrugged. "Got ways of makin' people talk."

"Hah," Phil said, not even a real laugh, and twisted out of Clint’s grasp easily. "We'll keep that as Plan B."

"Hey, I didn't—" he wasn't even sure what he didn't, just that Phil had decided to blow cold on him again, and that in spite of it, in spite of Phil being the master of mixed signals and a rigid, sanctimonious ass, Clint wanted him close again. "What's up your ass _now_ , Coulson? 'cause it sure as hell isn't me."

Phil gave him a look, but Clint couldn't tell if he was offended by the crudeness or the content of the question. 

"We need to talk about this," Phil said, finally, and Clint sighed, plopped down on the edge of Phil's bed. Phil seemed content to let him, went about unbuttoning his jeans, unzipping them, stepping out of them and folding them up. He dropped them on Clint's bed, next to the maps and gear, then walked back over in his black briefs and white t-shirt. It was so domestic and comfortable that Clint wanted to sink to his knees and suck him off for _hours_.

"What's to talk about?" he said instead, and dropped back, let his head bounce on the mattress. "I can take no for an answer, Coulson, we don't have to discuss it every damn day."

"That's not…" Phil lay down next to him, and Clint glanced over. Phil was actually smiling, just a little, but there was something so profoundly sad about it that Clint almost wanted to squirm away from him. “You never asked how I found you.”

“What?”

“In Tennessee. You never asked how I found you.”

It was true: he hadn’t cared, at first, and then he’d been so caught up in Phil kissing him and wanting him and almost fucking him, and then not. Clint shrugged. “Yeah?”

Phil looked at him, carefully. “They sent me a picture of you. Strung up, and—“ Phil’s voice went very cold, clinical. “And bleeding.” 

“They sent you…how?”

“To my SHIELD account.”

“You checked your _SHIELD_ account—“

“I was desperate,” and he looked it, right then: desperate and uncertain and not a little lost. Clint took a breath. 

“What did they—“

“A trade. Me for you.”

“ _Coulson_.”

“I would have,” Phil said, voice steady and sure, even as he was reluctant to meet Clint’s gaze. “If I’d had to. I would’ve.” 

“You can’t—You _shouldn’t_.” Clint wasn’t even sure _what_ Phil shouldn’t, except that he was: Phil shouldn’t care that much. Phil shouldn’t be willing to die for him. 

"I know that,” Phil said, and Clint was kind of relieved about it. At least he _knew_ how dumb it was to care so much about Clint, without seeming to even expect anything in return. Phil took a breath. “But I do. And there's no way this works out, long-term, without you being even more of a target. So I can’t—"

"Long-term?" Clint had to laugh, because what he really wanted to do, more than anything, was run. "Screw the long-term, Coulson. Chances are we'll be dead in a week. If we're not then hell, you can look back on the fact you're so damn hot the guy sent to kill you couldn't go through with it. I’m not gonna be any worse off because you fucked me than I was before."

"I don't—" Clint kissed him; he was close and Clint was tired of talking, tired of Phil giving so much without taking anything. When Phil kissed him back, it felt _careful_ , more than anything: Phil sighed, stroked his hair, kept his distance even as Clint felt his breaths quicken. 

Clint pressed his tongue into Phil’s mouth and hitching his leg over Phil’s waist, pulling himself up tight against Phil’s chest. Phil gasped, sharp and shocked, but wrapped his hand around the back of Clint’s neck and rolled, dragging Clint on top of him as he went. Clint would’ve complained about it, teased him about the mixed signals and the _long-term_. He would have, he really, really would have, except he didn't want to, because Phil was sucking on his tongue and sliding a hand under his t-shirt and along his spine.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> *le gasp*: is that a fade to black sex scene you see? Are they going to do the do, for real this time? You will see, in the next, exciting installment of _Aim_ , coming to AO3 tomorrow night. Probably. Maybe. TIME WILL TELL.


	22. Chapter 22

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Quick, one line description of domestic abuse, and also some sort of gory injury stuff.

New Jersey was kind of shitty at the best of times; the next morning it was particularly bad, drizzling grey clouds indistinguishable from the outputs of hundreds of industrial smoke stacks they passed as they drove. Phil was smiling, though, a small, self-satisfied smile that made Clint want to do very stupid things.

("What if we just run?" he'd said, and Phil had given him that same smile, the gentle quirk that just _begged_ for a kiss.

"Where?" he'd said, obviously just to indulge him, but Clint had been willing to go with it.

"Anywhere. I’ve got money saved, we could just keep out of trouble—"

"For the rest of our lives?"

Clint shrugged. "I got nothing better to do."

Phil hadn't had an answer to that, just chuckled, shook his head, and turned off the lights.)

They hit the meadowlands, and Clint checked the wide, flat receiver screen again: Mr. Mountain, or at least his wallet, was still downtown, probably hoping to catch Clint and Phil in the act of stalking him. 

"Are we close?"

"I think so," Clint checked the map again: it was tough to gauge without any kind of landmarks, but they seemed to have driven far enough. 

But there was nothing, absolutely nothing out there, at least within view: Clint didn't want to brag, but his eyesight was _excellent_ , and there was nothing here but a lot of scrubby bushes around and rough and wet sand.

Phil parked the car anyway. They got out and looked around; Phil had a set of binoculars from his tree stash, and looked west, away from the river. Clint had his hands the pockets of a grey sweatshirt Phil had bought at the giftshop (I ♥ NY, it proclaimed), and took in the city skyline for a while, because there was fuck all else out here. 

Except….except maybe…

"Wait," he said. "I think I see something."

Phil turned around automatically. "What?"

"I don't—" he squinted. "Movement? Couple of guys, three at least, all in black. I think there's a bunker or something, they're in and out." He glanced over; Phil was scanning the horizon with his binoculars, as if he hadn't found the spot yet. Clint walked over to him, pressed a hand to the small of his back, and guided his head to the left a little. "Yeah?"

Phil's face was wrought with concentration, and then he lowered his binoculars and gave Clint a steady, careful look. "Yeah. I think there's five of them. It's definitely a bunker, which is going to—"

"Gonna be a shit show." There wasn't anything near high enough to shoot from, and the surrounding area was flat as hell, no chance of sneaking up on it. Maybe if they'd had a SHIELD task force to force their way in, not that he was going to suggest it.

"We'll deal with it," said Phil, with quiet confidence. He was still giving Clint the weirdest look, not quite _I want to push you against the car and fuck you hard_ but not that far off, either.

"What?" 

Phil bit his lip, and put his binoculars down. He looked like he was on the verge of saying something, then stopped himself, then gave a bashful little smirk. "What do your elf eyes see, Legolas?"

Clint groaned. "You're such a fuckin' nerd."

"I've been told it's part of my charm."

Well, that was true, but Clint didn't have the time to think about it: there was a new flurry of movement, at least ten other guys milling around what probably looked like a bare patch of sand from above. "There's about ten more," he said, and Phil sighed.

 _Fuck this_ , Clint couldn't help thinking. And the worst of it was that if they could just get in, it wouldn't be a problem: Clint was in general a reckless little shit, but he had no doubt that between himself and Phil at his most badass, they could probably take down at least fifteen burly minions. But getting in, if it was guarded, which it undoubtedly would be? And who knew what the hell else was down there?

"I might…" Phil said, and Clint glanced over at him. Phil cleared his throat. "I might have a plan," he looked at the ground, like he knew he was in trouble and didn't want to meet Clint's eyes. "But you're not going to like it."

Clint sighed. "Tell me."

Phil did.

He’d been right: Clint didn't like it.

*

He stole another phone; he felt a little worse about this one, it was pink and belonged to an obviously hassled woman who was much too sweet about being bumped into by a rough-looking guy traveling around a corner at high speed.

He went to a computer at the hotel's business center and found the phone number. Made the call; left a message; headed up to their room to wait, and watched Phil for a while. He did some pacing, and Phil took a shower.  
Clint wanted nothing more than to join him, but the phone rang, and he couldn't.

*

Phil came out, fully dressed in a new shirt and suit; he looked flushed, relaxed, entirely perfect. Clint stood up, walked over to him, grabbed him by the ends of jacket, and buried his face in Phil's neck.

"Done?" Phil said, and Clint nodded. 

"This is a terrible plan," he mumbled, and Phil stroked the back of his head.

"Do you have better one?"

"I bet Hawaii's nice this time of year."

"Hawaii's always nice," Phil said, and kissed his forehead. 

"We could…we could always go after."

Phil pulled back a little, seemingly to look him in the face and gauge his sincerity. And then he smiled. "Sounds like a plan."

*

When Clint couldn't sleep, which was often, it was because of the memories that lurked just below his eyelids and floated up the minute he closed his eyes. The sight of his own femur piercing his leg; the splatter of blood across his face the first time he'd killed a man; his mother getting slapped across the face hard enough to break her jaw.

He got the feeling that the way Phil closed his eyes right before Clint knocked him out was going right to the top of the list. 

He tied Phil's hands in front of him; behind his back would be more authentic, but he couldn't bring himself to do it, didn't want him to have to break his thumbs to get free later. He tucked Phil into the passenger's side of the car, buckled him in, and took a moment to just look at him, to wish he could kiss him again 

He didn't.

*

"Hey, hey, _hey_ ," Dominguez spread his arms wide. "How you doin', boy?"

"Fine," he said. "Got the money?"

"Ehhhhh," Dominguez waived at his black-coated minions, who handed him a cell phone. "Ready to be wired once I've got the guy."

"And you didn't tell Marshall it was me?"

"No way, man! I gave you my word!"

"Uh-huh," Clint said, not really buying it.

"Nah, man, it's cool! One of you's better than none, right? Gave me the $2.5 million, told me she'd keep the rest till I brought you buuuuut…" he shrugged. "I'm not gonna sell you out, man."

"Uh- _huh_."

"That him?" he gestured at the car, and Clint nodded.

Dominguez looked doubtful, but then shrugged. "Looks kinda like an accountant, doesn't he?" 

"I wouldn't know." Clint didn't have time for this. "He'll be out for a while. But she's gonna want to talk to him, so you better make sure he does wake up."

Dominguez gave him a weird look, but nodded. Snapped his fingers at his men, who walked over to the car. "Gotcha. What's it about this guy, though? What's everyone want him for?"

"No idea," Clint said, and didn't watch as Phil's limp form was put into the black car. Once the door shut, Dominguez grinned at him, and pressed a button on the phone. 

"Pleasure doing business with you," he said, and got in as well. 

Clint grunted, and Dominguez shook his head as he drove away. Clint watched them go; once he was out of their sight, he sagged back against Phil's shitty car and tried to force down the impending panic running through him.

It didn't really work.

*

He drove back to the city: they'd left the receiver there, in case Dominguez's men had decided to search the car. Mr. Mountain's location was still beeping away, on the New York side of the river; this was expected, too, no way Marshall would bring Dominguez into the HQ, even if he did have Phil with him. The delivery would have to go down somewhere else, probably with fewer men. Clint took it with him as he drove, heading back to meadowlands. Parked the car a little closer this time, hoping no one would be on the look out.

And waited.

And waited.

Two hours passed, and Mr. Mountain's dot hadn't moved. 

This hadn't _precisely_ been part of the plan, but driving uptown to check it out wasn't so far outside it that he'd feel guilty explaining it to Phil later, so he went, to what turned out to be an utterly average apartment building. The names on the intercom all seemed about the same age, so he was left wondering if he should blow any element of surprise by buzzing each apartment or scale up the fire-escape instead. 

He was saved by a sweet-faced young guy with dark brown hair on his way out the door. "You look lost," he said, after giving Clint the least subtle once-over imaginable. 

"I'm, uh—" Clint gave his most charming smile back. "I'm looking for a friend of mine? Just moved in, but I think gave me the wrong apartment number?"

"Oh yeah?"

"Yeah, he's uh—" Clint made himself blush a little. "Big guy? Kind of serious?"

"Oh," Clint's new best friend looked a little disappointed, but then he shrugged. "Yeah, that's 5B."

"Awesome, dude, thanks!" he said, and the guy held the door open for him. Clint had started up the stairs when he heard a throat clear behind him.

"Hey, uh," the guy shifted a little. "I don't think he's in. But I'm 12D, and I'll be back in like, five minutes, so…"

Clint forced himself to smile. "I'll keep that in mind," Clint said, and winked, before turning the corner. 

The walls in the building were pretty thin: Clint could hear snippets of conversation, of televisions and music playing, as he climbed the stairs. On the fifth floor, there was nothing: 5 A - D were totally silent, and he pressed his ear against each door to make sure. Looked like the friendly neighbor had been right. 

Picking the lock was easy, _too_ easy, and Clint knew it the moment he eased the door open and jumped out of what would presumably be the line of fire. Nothing happened, which was, in a way, kind of worse. 

The room was empty of furniture, except for the square, black table in the center: there was a pot of tea on it, and a woman seated behind it. 

“Good afternoon, Mr. Barton,” said Mrs. Marshall, and her red lips curved into an amused smile. 

_Yeah_ , Clint thought. This had been a terrible idea.


	23. Chapter 23

The thing about being so utterly screwed was that Clint had to actually laugh about it. 

Ms. Marshall looked on as he did, still smiling, still patient, and when he stopped, she took a sip of the tea in front of her and arched her eyebrow, dipped her head: _sit_ , she seemed to say, without doing anything as mundane as actually deigning to speak to him.

Clint sat, of course. Why not, at this point.

“You’re not going to try anything, are you?” she said, putting down her teacup.

“Try anything?”

“To kill me, I mean.”

“The thought kinda has its appeal.”

“Suppress it. You’re smarter than that.”

Clint laughed again. “People keep telling me that, and I’m really startin’ to wonder how they’re getting that impression.”

“Observation,” she said, and gave him a particularly fond look. Clint almost lost it, but tamped down the urge to flip the table between them over. Barely. 

“What the hell do you _want_ from me, lady? ‘cause last I checked, you’ve got Agent Coulson, and you coulda killed me eight times by now, so I don’t—”

“I want to offer you a job.”

“You…you _what_?” he stared at her; she stared back, still smirking. “I gotta say, this is one hell of a recruitment tactic.”

“Well, it’s an unconventional job”

Clint couldn’t help but laugh again. “I would think.”

She kept talking, as if he hadn’t spoken: “I’m offering you a home base. A place of your own. A family, of a sort.”

“Yeah, I’ve heard about what you do to family. Gotta say, no thanks.”

Something in her sharp, dark eyes flickered, but then disappeared. “You’re talking about my son.” 

“For a start.”

“You think he was an innocent, Mr. Barton? You think he was a wide-eyed child lost in the wilderness? He took the money. He loved the power. He wasn’t like you, of course: you’re just a killer.”

“ _Just_ a killer?”

“He was a murderer. Which I…encouraged, at the time, because it seemed rather convenient. And then he fell in love and he thought that meant he deserved a life of his own, free from the consequences of his actions.”

“And you’re saying he didn’t?”

She sighed and gave him a look that was unspeakably sad. “It’s a rough business, Mr. Barton. None of us are free from the consequences of our actions.”

“So he turned on you, and you had _him_ killed, but not just him, his _wife_ , and his daughter—“

Her eyes got cold, colder than they’d been, but then she blinked and any trace of anger was gone. “I’d never harm Harry.”

“Then why were you trying so hard to find her?”

She chuckled, shook her head. “This was never about Harriet, Mr. Barton.”

“Oh yeah? What was it about, then?”

“I’ve already told you,” she said, chiding him a little, and Clint rolled his eyes. 

“You paid me half a million dollars to take out a random SHIELD agent in the hope I’d like it so much I’d stick around?”

“I paid you half a million dollars to take out Nick Fury’s right hand man and bring the full wrath of SHIELD onto you.”

“You were…” he shook his head, sighed. He was such an idiot. “You were going to blackmail me.”

She shrugged. “It’s worked in the past.”

“It wouldn’t’ve worked on me.”

“Of course not, Mr. Barton,” she said, patronizing, and took another sip of her tea. “There was a time, after, when I _did_ just want to kill you. Kill both of you. It was upsetting, admittedly, to see someone take my money and run.”

“Yeah, after the third round of assassins, I did kinda get the picture.”

She chuckled at that. “I suppose. But now, well: now I see just how _valuable_ you are, how good a fit you’d be in our organization.”

“All due respect, _ma’am_ , but there’s no _organization_ I’d be a worst fit for than yours. _SHIELD itself_ would be a better fit.”

“Are you sure about that?”

“ _Damn_ sure.”

She frowned at him, cocked her head, carefully feigned confusion. “You do realize I have Phil Coulson.”

“I don’t give a shit about Phil Coulson.”

She chuckled at that, demure and unconvinced. “I’ll be sure to tell him that. Tomorrow night. Right before I put a bullet between his eyes.”

Well, that was heavy-handed as fuck. Clint was almost disappointed. “Well you just do what you’ve gotta do, ma’am.” 

“I always have, Mr. Barton,” she said, and rose. She held her hand out; Clint stared up at her, utterly still, and she just chuckled, put the business card down on the table front of him, with Phil’s tracker on top. “I always have.”

*

Clint considered his options.

There was always his new best friend, up in 12D, though that was discarded pretty quickly: the kid looked like Clint could break him in half just by looking at him funny. 

He could always go back to the bunker, do his level best to disappear amidst inch-high weeds and rough sand. Get shot at by a bunch of guys who had to know his face by now. Die, not even that heroically, and leave Phil to get killed, because he was a stubborn ass. But at least he'd be free of this mess.

He could run. Hawaii was, apparently, always nice. 

He could panic, do something dumb like call Marshall and say yes: it might work, might get him taken to where Phil was, but on the other hand, he didn’t trust Marshall to be quite that stupid. 

Which brought him back to: dead, but at least not having to worry about asshole SHIELD agents who'd ruined his life. 

He sighed, walked over to the window, and pried it open. Went down the fire-escape, more out of a desire to avoid the kid than any other reason, and ran.

*

He ended up in Washington Square Park; the sun was just setting and the place was packed, NYU students abuzz with nervous pretension, tourists taking pictures of the Arch, undaunted locals taking their dogs to the run. He sat on a bench, stared at Phil's receiver for a while: he would've taken the tracker but there was the chance it'd been screwed with, modified so it could be picked up by one of Marshall's goons.

Eventually, he shut his eyes, took out the newly appropriated phone, and dialed. It took a while to connect, and even then, it rang four, five, _six_ times, before there was a click. That was a first, she'd never picked up before.

"I need your help," he said, and there was silence. She didn't hang up, though, so he took a breath, and continued. "I can pay." 

The line clicked again; dead air this time, she'd disconnected, and Clint was about to dial again when the message came through.

**_how much_ **

_2 rt now_ , he typed out. _+3 if u wait_. It would take him a while; he'd have to make some calls, empty out another account. There was a pause and he considered offering more, but before he could: 

**_what do you need_ **

_help me find him_

The pause was longer after that, and Clint, for a second, thought that was it: no objection, no haggling for price, she'd accepted his terms, it would be fine.

_**what is my job** _

Clint frowned. _?_

**_what is my job_ **

Clint stared at the screen a while, and received: _**it was your job too**_

And then he understand: his job had not been helping to find people, that was for damn sure.

_kill her_

_**this will solve your problem?** _

_it'll help_

_**5** _

It took him a moment and then he remembered, typed a quick _y_ in response. 

A string of numbers appeared, which he recognized as an account number for a Swiss bank. Clint stared at until it was firm in his memory, then he got up, tucked the phone into his pocket, and dropped it down the first sewer grate he came to.

*

He lifted another phone and made some calls, then went back to the hotel. It was stupid, chances were he was being watched by now, but he didn't care. He collapsed onto Phil's bed, cell phone in one hand, Phil's neatly folded city map in the other, and just waited.

Wasn't sure what for, but the buzz of the phone in his hand that woke him up seemed to be it: _**tomorrow**_ , it said, and Clint couldn't breath: that was too late, maybe if he'd paid her more, maybe if he'd gone himself, maybe— ** _0600_**

Clint choked. _Where?_

_**7 beekman st** _

_i owe u_

_**we’re even** _


	24. Chapter 24

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This is kind of an intense chapter, and it's a little bit on the longer side, and...it ends on a cliffhanger, so. I'M SORRY.

Seven Beekman Street was huge: red brick and ornate, with huge windows. It was also in the middle of lower Manhattan, which Clint felt was just bad planning: the city bustled around it, even at five in the morning, and the ancient scaffolds lining the streets were easy to scale without alerting the nervous-looking guy lurking by the front door. 

There must've been more guards, but Clint didn't see any, no matter how much he scanned the still-intact windows. He found one, fourth floors up, that'd been boarded up pretty recently. Peeled the wood back just enough to slip in.

The room he landed in was eerily quiet, dust covered, with peeling paint and the permanent scent of city damp. Beyond all that, the vastness was impressive: the door ahead of him was open and he could see through to the hallway, which seemed to open onto even more space. He could see parallel rows of ornate railings, and the amount of light streaming down spoke of a skylight, at the least, if not a collapsed roof. He crossed the room, hugging the wall, trying to leave as few traces in the dust as possible.

There was the sound of something ancient breaking downstairs, and Clint rushed through the door and into the hallway: he'd been right, there was an atrium, a glass roof above them and several floors worth of iron railings. Below, dark figures were running toward something; there was a whole lot of shouting about it, too. He leaned over to see what it was, and a bullet whizzed past his head and sent a significant amount of ornamental plaster on the opposite side of the atrium flurrying to the floor below. Clint flung himself over the railing, and swung down to the third floor; he could hear footsteps above him, drew the gun from his thigh holster, and fired. He wasn't sure it would work, but the crack of wood and the loud yelp seemed to indicate it had, and he flipped himself down to the second floor, startling a group of three sketchy looking guys. They stared at Clint with wide eyes for a full second, which was more than enough time for Clint to dart down the hallway and into a room which, he remembered from trip up the building, had a bunch of sheet-covered furniture in it. 

He ducked behind a vaguely desk-shaped lump and had to hold in a sneeze from all the dust as he waited. It didn't take long: the heavy stomp of boots coming through the door one by one (which, _seriously_?) made kneecaping all three of them a breeze. He probably should've given their prone, whimpering bodies a wide berth on the way out the door, but he didn't, stopped to grab all of their guns. He slipped Phil's Glock back in its holster, popped the magazines out of the other two, and pocketed them. The other he kept in hand, still loaded, as he made his way down to the first floor.

By then, the commotion had ended. 

Clint wasn't sure what he was expecting, but a lobby full of six totally alive, totally pissed off henchgoons who looked like they were _just_ waiting for some punk to wander in and make their day, was not it. 

"Uh," Clint said, taking what would've looked like a nervous step back. "Hey there?"

They charged; Clint stopped thinking, just acted, shooting a guy in the leg, thrusting his elbow into someone else's chest as he tried to grab Clint from behind. Someone's knife flashed by his cheek and Clint dove forward, pushing whoever it was over and making sure to stomp on his groin as he righted himself. 

A gun fired from above him; Clint spun and shot, didn't bother listening for the drop of a body before turning back around to punch the guy coming up behind him in the neck. Said guy dropped, choking for breath, and Clint grabbed the knife he was still clutching and tucked it away, because you never knew when a knife would come in handy.

The lobby was silent again, and Clint counted the bodies: five, not counting the shooter from above, and Clint wasn't sure if he should. But there was no time, he had to move: they'd either have Phil up high, which meant Clint would have to search each floor and hope for the best, or down below, where anyone coming down a set of stairs would be open season. 

The floor creaked behind him and he ducked and spun on instinct, but there was no one there. He straightened slowly, and winced as something sharp and fast went flying past his head. There was a thump, and then a thud, as a still-glowering Mr. Mountain tipped to the floor with the hilt of a nasty black knife sticking out from between his eyes. A gun clattered to the floor beside him. Clint glanced back in the direction the knife had come from: nothing, but that was not a surprise. He saluted in her direction, anyway. 

And then it was time, time to think. Up or down, the risk of walking into an ambush in the basement or the time he would spend scaling the wall and peering into ancient, dark rooms. He considered flipping a coin, but in the end, it was an arrow, drawn in the dust, that convinced him: it pointed toward a darkened doorway, and as Clint approached it, he could tell it was a set of stairs leading down. 

He went slow this time; gun pointed ahead of him, careful not to let his clothing snag on the wall, careful to make no noise on the old, wooden steps. 

There wasn't much light to go on and even less as he made his way down, but he squinted a little, stopped short, and waited for his eyes to adjust; there was no noise down there, either. He felt exposed, vulnerable, the itch of his skin that came when he was being watched. He reached the last step, brought his gun up and coughed, hoping it would draw something, but it didn't, the room was still pitch black and dead silent, and then:

"Barton?" 

He didn't say anything; could be a trap, he could have been forced, hell, he could've been _recorded_. But he could hear someone breathing, and it sounded like Phil, sounded like Phil when he was relieved, and he finally let out a breath. 

"Yeah," he said. "There a light in here?"

"About three steps from the door," Phil said. "To your left."

Clint took the three steps; ran his hand along the peeling wallpaper and god knew what, but found the switch. Flipped it and jumped aside, just in case, but the dim hum of electricity and the weak yellow light oozing above them wasn't followed by any more knives flying at his face or bullets whizzing toward his chest, so he relaxed a little. 

Not much, because the basement was a horror movie waiting to happen: exposed brick, ancient bulbs strung along some sort of wire that went across the cavernous expanse but only served to create more shadows around the crumbling brick columns. 

Phil was in a chair, looking pretty okay: a bruise on his cheek, scuffs on his white shirt like maybe he'd been kicked, no tie. But he didn't look like he was in pain and he also looked very, very glad to see Clint, which made him grin. 

"'No, it should be me,'" he mimicked, a little high, as he walked over to him. "No, Barton, this is _such_ a great plan, trust me, I know _everything_. I'll get loose, let you in, no problem.'"

Phil laughed, weak but genuine. "I didn't say that."

"Yeah, you were thinking it," Clint said, walking around behind him; his arms were tied back, but that was easy enough to deal with: knives always did come in handy. Once Phil's hands were free he was quick to lean over and try to undo the ropes around his legs, but Clint could see he was having trouble and walked back around. Knelt in front of him, pushed his hands away, and went to work: sawed through the knots as Phil ran numb fingers through his hair. When he finished, Phil sighed, deep, and Clint looked up to see him sagging in the chair, with his head lolling over the back of it. Couldn't be comfortable, but he wasn't going to judge. "They make you sleep like this?"

"I've had worse," Phil said, and Clint didn't really doubt it. He stood up, still watching Phil, looking for signs of anything serious or life-threatening. Except for the soft, fond look he was giving Clint, there was nothing.

"C'mon," he said, offering him a hand. Phil took it, hoisted himself up, and they stood with about an inch of distance between them for about five seconds before Phil swayed against him and pretty much fell into his arms. 

"Sorry," said Phil, not sounding all that sorry as he nuzzled at Clint's neck. 

"Apology accepted." Clint wrapped his arms around Phil's waist, tight, and just breathed, just enjoyed the feeling of Phil leaning against him. It was perfect, warm and relaxed and familiar. _Perfect_. 

"Clint?"

"Yeah?"

"Marshall?"

Clint kissed his neck; it tasted of sweat and soot, but he didn't care. "Taken care of. Promise."

Phil pulled back a little. "What does that mean?"

"It means I took care of it," Clint snapped, and Phil looked at him, eyebrows raised, till Clint relaxed, and nodded. 

"Okay," Phil said, and swallowed. "What are you wearing?"

"Oh." Clint looked down, as if he'd just noticed the fact he had Phil's tac suit on. "This old thing?"

Phil laughed; Clint felt it humming between them and flushed. "You wear it well."

"Well, y'know," Clint said. "Enjoy it while you can."

Phil leaned in and kissed him: hard, swift, and with a lot of gratitude. "I already am," he said. 

Clint, still a little weak in the knees from the kiss, or maybe from the whole stupid, daring rescue situation earlier, laughed a little hysterically. "Let's get out of here," he said. "And you can enjoy it a whole lot more."

"Sounds like a plan," Phil said, and Clint let go of him, though not before giving him one last kiss on the neck. "Do you see my key chain anywhere?"

"Seriously?" Clint said, scanning the floor anyway. 

"It's got sentimental value, I just—"

And Clint heard it: a soft, familiar _whoosh_. Clint fired automatically, emptying the magazine as he tried to hit something he couldn't see; he could hear footsteps running up the stairs he'd just come down, heard them falter for just a second before disappearing, and he was getting ready to go after her when he heard the chair screech across the floor behind him and turned around. 

"NO. No, Coulson—" he caught Phil as he fell, felt the blood already starting to seep through his fingers, around the handle of the dark, elegant knife. " _Phil_. Listen to me, you'll be fine, I got you, you—" Phil was looking up at him, utterly stunned, and then down at his—shit, at his chest, where his not-so-perfectly white shirt was turning even less white. "I know someone, someone who'll fix it, who can take care of you, just—"

"You called me Phil," Phil was giving him that sad little smile of his, and there was blood all over Clint's hands, or else he'd want to touch him, to stroke his cheek. 

"You said I could, remember? Or is that only when we're in bed?"

Phil laughed, a little, but then he stopped, and his face went pale, more pale than it had been. "Ouch," he said. "I've been hit?"

"Good job, Captain Obvious," he said, and pressed a hand tighter to keep the knife still, to keep the blood in him. "Gonna have to tell the doctor that, once I get you outta here. You'll like her, she's a snarky little shit, like you, and—"

"Clint," he said, eyes fluttering for a second, before he opened them wide. It took obvious effort and Clint couldn't breath.

"Yeah?" he said, choking a little, and he felt Phil move, felt Phil's hand move: he pressed his palm to the back of Clint’s hand. 

"I'm so..." Phil took a very sharp breath. "I'm so sorry, I—"

"Shit, no, Phil, what the hell're you sorry for, I—"

"You tried so hard, you tried so hard to save me, but I—"

"Shut up, shut up, _Phil_ , stop it, I'm still..." he held back a sob. "I'm still saving you, it'll be—" 

"Clint," Phil said, and Clint turned to look at his face. "You're perfect. I'm sorry."

"Fuck you, Coulson, I—"

Phil made a sharp, wounded sound, and Clint panicked, grabbed at him harder, and Phil tucked his cheek against Clint's shoulder in response. "I like it when you call me Phil," he murmured, and Clint wanted to tear the whole world apart, could feel fire burning in the pit of his stomach. 

"Phil," he said. "I love calling you Phil. I’m going to get you of here, Phil, I promise. We're—we’re gonna go and get you patched up, okay?" he kissed Phil's forehead; it was clammy, cool to the touch. _Shit._ "And then, we're gonna ditch everything, right? 'cause fuck SHIELD, fuck all of this, we're going to Hawaii, okay? Just you and me, Phil. I'm gonna need you there, you know? 'cause you wanted to take care of me, well, you can do that, I promise, I'll let you. And I'll—I'll take care of you, too. Okay? You got that? You and me, Coulson and the Hawk, screw everything else."

The blood on his pants was getting cold, and Phil's body was going limp against him. 

"Phil," he said. "Phil, honey, talk to me."

"'m okay," he said, too low to hear, almost, but Clint just cradled him closer. "Barely even hurts."

"That's...that's good," Clint said, knowing it wasn't. He could barely get the words out. "We're gonna be okay, Phil. You got that?"

There was a slight shift against his shoulder as Phil nodded. He mumbled something; Clint couldn't hear it, ducked his head closer, and caught the end "—you."

"What about me? Phil? Phil, what...what about me, I—Phil, just—" and he couldn't hear Phil breathing anymore but he could hear footsteps again, the sound of heavy boots this time, stomping their way down the old wooden stairs.

He looked up: there were at least five people, all in black, armed to the teeth and pointing rifles at him. He couldn't bring himself to care. Found himself leaning over Phil, covering as much of him as he could, though he knew, he _knew_ , in the end, it wouldn't matter. He took deep breaths, struggled to get himself under control but couldn't stop shuddering, even as he knew, any moment now, the silent staring would stop and the shooting would start. 

"Wait. Hold your fire," a man said, and distantly, Clint thought he recognized something in his tone. Not that he'd heard his voice before, not like that, but something about the tone seemed so familiar. "Clint Barton?"

Clint choked in some air. "Who the hell wants to know?"

"A friend."

Clint laughed. It tore at his throat and he pressed his face against Phil's hair, hoping to catch his scent and not the blood and sweat and pain that he felt like he was drowning in.

"Step away from Agent Coulson, son," the man said, oddly gentle, and Clint just shook his head. He couldn't. He wouldn't. "We don't want to shoot you, Mr. Barton, but we will."

"Go ahead," he called out, sounding stronger than he'd imagined possible, as he curled around Phil, careful, still trying so hard not to jostle him. "Fucking do it, I—"

There was a loud pop; and then there was nothing, no pain, no blood, no deathly chill of Phil's body against him. In that sense, it was a relief.


	25. Chapter 25

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Blatant violations of due process occur in this chapter. Bad SHIELD, no cookie.

He woke up handcuffed to a bed. He wished he could say it was the first time.

It smelled like a hospital but it was strangely quiet, and he was alone, and his side itched, and his chest ached. He got the feeling he was on a hell of a lot of drugs; the handcuffs around his wrists seemed strangely solid, for one thing, like they were weighing down his hands. 

He blinked up at the ceiling. The light was florescent and disorientating, so he closed his eyes. 

He opened them again; the light was just as bright but the air had shifted. He glanced to the right: a man with a scar and an eyepatch was sitting there, watching him. There was no doubt about that, even though he had a newspaper open in front of him. He folded it in half, slowly, and gave Clint a very stern look though, to be fair, he doubted the man was capable of anything else.

"Well hello there, Mr. Barton. Aren't you just _full_ of surprises."

Clint recognized the voice: this was his _friend_ from before. Clint made the _worst_ friends. Except for Phil, maybe, Phil was probably a good friend. 

_Phil_. He forced himself up. "Is Phil—"

"Agent Coulson is still in surgery. It's not looking good; he lost a lot of blood." Eyepatch didn't look too worried about it; Clint had never wanted to kill anyone more. He strained against his handcuffs, but they didn't yield, and he was not about to flip the bed over, though he wasn't about to discount it as an eventual possibility, either. He sagged onto the bed. 

"Can I see him?" 

Eyepatch gave a short, huffy laugh. "No."

"I need to see him, I—I _need_ to, okay, you have to—."

"Well in _that_ case," Eyepatch rolled his one visible eye. " _Fuck_ no."

Maybe it was time to flip the bed after all. "Who the hell are you?"

Something about the man's features softened. "Right now, Mr. Barton, I'm the best friend you've got." He sounded sincere, but Clint remembered his voice before, the patient, undoubtedly manipulative tone of it. He forced a laugh.

"Oh, let me guess, you're the guy they send in to convince sixteen year old girls to flip on their family and spend the rest of their lives dodging people like me."

"No," said Eyepatch. "Agent Coulson's the guy I send in for that. Coulson's also the guy I send in to talk down amoral, talented assholes like yourself and get them to join up, but he's a little busy dying right now, so you and I are just gonna have to make do."

"I don't believe you." And he didn't; Coulson was a fighter, Coulson was indestructible and calm and perfect and could not, would not die, would not leave Clint alone like this, not after everything they'd been through.

But that was Agent Coulson. Phil, who was a good neighbor, Phil, who loved convenience store food, who drove with the windows open and the air conditioning off, with his shirt unbuttoned, with his freckles and dark, soft hair. Phil who reached for him in sleep and smiled at him when he woke up. Phil was human, and if there was one thing Clint knew, one thing Clint had learned and depend on and tested so, so thoroughly was that human beings were fragile, easy to break, hard to repair. He sat up again, desperately sucked in too-cold air as his head spun. 

Eyepatch kept talking anyway. "I just plain don't give a damn what you believe, Barton. Agent Coulson's important to a lot of people. I doubt you can say the same. But he wanted you in and I am obligated, as his friend, to give you that opportunity."

"His _friend_? Then _where the fuck were you_? When he was dying, when he was being—when we were being shot at, chased across South America, where the hell—"

"He asked me to keep my distance. Didn't want to spook you, and I think you understand why." 

Clint swallowed. "He didn't."

"I'm not here to play he said, she said, Barton. I'm making you an offer that you would have to be criminally stupid not to take: you sign up with SHIELD now, or you go to prison for the rest of your damn life."

"Tempting," Clint said, trying to make it drip with sarcasm: it may have just oozed drowsiness instead, but he did his best. 

"Now I'm not denying you've done some good work, here; I got seven members of Marshall's organization in custody, who're a hell of a lot smarter than you, by the way, 'cause they just can't _wait_ to make a deal."

"So you kinda owe me, is what you're saying."

Eyepatch gave him the absolute _coldest_ look possible. "You think I don't know your record, Barton? Think I don't know where you've been? You think I don't know _exactly_ where you _deserve_ , by rights, to be?"

Clint swallowed. "If I say yes—"

"This isn’t a negotiation, Barton."

If I say _yes_ , will you let me see—Agent Coulson?"

Eyepatch stared at him for a minute, more amused than anything, then stood up. "I'll let you know."

*

The handcuffs stayed on; he waited, made his biggest, saddest puppy eyes at the lady in scrubs who eventually came it. It earned him a look at his chart (gunshot wound, torn stitches, three broken ribs, apparently; none of which he'd noticed at the time, but he didn't doubt it) but no news on Phil.

Later (he couldn't tell how long, there wasn't so much as a clock or a window through which he could gauge time), Eyepatch returned, with a wheelchair, three armed guards, and a smirk. Apparently he had something other than stern after all, and it was malevolent glee.

At least they let him change: a grey t-shirt with a stylized eagle over his chest, and dark sweatpants. They did not, however, let him change in private, though the guards at least looked away; Eyepatch just looked entirely unimpressed at him for the duration. 

Clint didn't need the wheelchair, not really, but he sat in it willingly and let himself be handcuffed to it, even thanked the guy whose job it was. Eyepatch gave him a wary look at that, or maybe that was just his face, but out they went, into the freaking _quietest_ hospital hallway he'd ever been in. There were even other patients, a grumpy-looking blonde in traction, a big, burly red-head with his arm bound across his chest. They took the elevator; the floor above was somehow even quieter, with a lot more closed doors. 

Behind one of those closed doors was Agent Phil Coulson; the walls must've been soundproofed because all of the medical beeps and buzzes Clint couldn't hear from the hallway filled the room, tangled with the fading light from the large window to create an particularly painful atmosphere. 

"He came out of surgery all right—"

"Duh," Clint said, not even paying attention: Phil's chest was rising and falling, but his eyes were shut, and his hands were so, so still. 

Eyepatch kept talking, as if he could simply not _believe_ he'd been interrupted, especially by something that mundane. "—but the internal damage was severe. He'll be out for a while."

"Can I have some time?"

"No."

He glanced back; Eyepatch was looking suspicious, and Clint let himself look powerfully, intensely lost. It wasn't hard. "Please. I'm cooperating! I'm wounded, I'm freakin' _handcuffed_ —" he rattled them, pounded the handles of the chair. "To _this_. Just give me some time. Five minutes! Five minutes, then I'm yours, swear to god!"

Eyepatch rolled his eye again, but nodded. The guards exited; Eyepatch seemed totally determined to stick around, which: _fine_. Clint would do what he had to do. He rolled himself closer to Phil's bed, reached out, and took his hand; kissed his knuckles, and then reached over, nearly tipping over the chair in his effort to drop his forehead to Phil's chest. He let out a small, strangled sob.

"I'm sorry," he whimpered. "God, Phil. I'm so sorry. I love you so much, I should've told you, that last night together—" the door behind him shut; he glanced back, and yeah, no more Eyepatch. 

He took a breath, straightened up, unlocked the cuffs with the keys he'd snuck out of the much-too-nice guard's pocket. Guy was going to lose his job for sure, but Clint didn't have time to feel bad about it. He forced himself out of the wheelchair; it hurt, but not that bad, not debilitating. He limped to the window: it'd probably take ages to force it from the outside, but patients could always use a little fresh air. It slid open easily: they were about three floors up, which would just have to do.

He looked back at Phil—he was so still, breathing through a machine, hands flat on the thin mattress. His heart was strong, though, making sharp, steady blips on the monitor. Clint found it a lot easier to breath. 

"I really am sorry," he said, for all the good it would do, and jumped.


	26. Chapter 26

It was easier to be on the run alone than with someone else.

Clint knew that, had always known that; even injured, it was easier, stealing clothes, stealing cars, stealing anything. Medical supplies were harder to come by but he wasn’t about to keel over from infection after everything else, so he did the best he could with fresh bandages and general wariness. 

He made it to New Mexico, mostly on instinct, basically in one piece, before he stopped. Didn’t remember much about the journey; highways, driving, bad music on the radio. 

Roswell was sunny and full of tourists and, more importantly, of hotels. He spent three days there, sleeping like the dead and surviving on shitty vending machine food. 

He moved on to Carlsbad on the fourth morning. He didn’t sleep much there, just stared out of his sliding balcony window at the scrubby desert around him. The sunset was bright blood red; he watched it impassively, took a shower, and went out. 

He came back drunk and bruised, without the buzz of having won a fight, because of course he hadn’t. He lay on the pink and turquoise bedsheets and shut his eyes and waited. 

He woke up to the rosy hue of dawn coming through the balcony. And there was no sound, no sound at all, but the air had changed: someone else had started to breathe it. 

“Why?” he said, not looking in her direction, though he curled his hand over the gun under his pillow. It wasn’t loaded anymore.

“I’d been hired already.” He’d never heard her voice before; it was unremarkable, low, almost unaccented. He wasn’t sure what he’d been expecting, but it wasn’t that. 

“By who? Marshall?” There was silence, and Clint laughed. “What, while you were killing her?”

“It wasn’t Marshall.”

“Then _who_?” Clint sat up, leaving the gun where it was. She didn’t move. “You couldn’t have at least mentioned it?” No response to that, either; he hadn’t expecting one, not really. He wasn’t even angry, or at least, not that angry. This was who they were: reputation was everything, if she hadn’t gone through with it, if she’d let him stop it, she’d have been as screwed as he was. She’d taken two almost incompatible jobs and carried them through. Well, sort of. 

“He’s not dead,” he said, because he was an idiot, but it was true, and he had to know what she’d do, what he’d have to do to stop her.

“My job is done.”

“But he’s not—“

“ _My job is done_ ,” she said, and there was a shift, like she was moving. He looked in her direction: he could see the outlines of her body, and it was always a shock to remember how small she was. She seemed to know he was looking and put something down on the dresser: what looked like a photograph, with something heavy and metallic on top of it. She tensed for a moment, then relaxed, and dropped something else on top of that, something smaller, which clinked. She turned away; her hand was on the doorknob before she spoke again: “I was wrong.”

“What?”

“I was wrong.” Her voice was softer now. “About you. I thought I understood, but…I was wrong.”

“What do you mean?”

She shook her head, and Clint jumped up out of bed and approached her. She didn’t so much as tense (of course she wouldn’t, there was nothing Clint could do to her right now, even if he’d wanted to) but her head moved as if she was looking at the door, imagining herself halfway down the hall already.

“Wait,” Clint said, and stopped walking. He held up his hands. “Wait, just—talk to me.”

“We aren’t friends.”

“No,” Clint said. “We don’t have friends.”

“ _I_ don’t,” she said, swift but not particularly sharp.

“You could,” he offered. “We could…” she turned; he still couldn’t see her face, but with another step he could’ve. He stayed where he was, and shrugged. “We could be.”

She laughed at that. She _laughed_ at that. “I couldn’t,” she said, turned around, and left.

*

It took some time, but he ended up in Indiana.

The house was unremarkable, another tidy brick house with a lush front lawn on a dead end street full of tidy brick houses and lush front lawns. There was also a garage, and a shiny blue minivan sitting in the driveway. 

He rang the doorbell: a dog howled inside, and the clicking, scrambling sound of paws on hardwood floor came soon after, followed by heavy footsteps and the slide of bolt unlocking the door.

The man who opened it was short, and dressed in a flannel shirt, and wrinkled khakis. He had a bristly mustache and dark, curly hair, and was holding back an exuberant black lab. He looked kinda pissed, though whether at Clint or the dog, Clint wasn’t sure. It wasn’t quite what Clint was expecting, and it took him a minute to react.

“Mr. Delgado?” he said, finally, and the man nodded. “I’m looking for Dawn?”

The man frowned, seemed a little bit surprised, but then shook his head. “Aurora!” he called. A moment passed, then:

“Yeah?” from far back in the house, distorted by the distance and the house, but still very familiar. 

“You have company!” 

Something heavy crashed in the background. “Who?”

Mr. Delgado rolled his eyes. “Come up here and find out!” he said, and then, to Clint: “She’ll be right up.” He gave Clint another nod, then walked off, dragging the dog with him.

Clint stood there for a moment, at the open door. Was he supposed to go in or—footsteps stomped up stairs, and then there she was, turning a corner.

“Aurora?” he said, finding himself smiling a little, if for no other reason than the fact that she seemed relieved to see him. 

“ _Clinton_ ,” she said, as if making a point, and walked up to him. “I thought you’d be dead by now.”

“Nice.”

“I mean, I’m not, like, disappointed, it’s just—“

“Yeah.”

She looked him over for a moment, then grinned. “What are you waiting for, asshole? Come on in.”

“I just—“ he took a step in, and took another look around: so utterly, utterly normal. “You’ve got a…dog. And a dad, and—“

“And a mom,” she said, turning around. Clint followed her as she walked back the way she came. “And a house. People have these things, Clint. You had those things.”

They started down the stairs. “I never had a dog.”

“Yeah, _that’s_ the main difference,” she said, glancing over her shoulder, then away.

They made it to the bottom of the steps: there was a lot of wood paneling, a squashy plaid couch, and the smell of old carpet. Most of her computers from New York had been set up against one wall, along with her rolling chair, which she bypassed for the couch.

“You okay here?” he said, and she raised her eyebrows. 

“What do you mean?”

“I mean…are you safe? I found you, a lot of people could—“

“My dad’s a Marine.”

Clint thought back to the guy. “Seriously?”

Dawn shrugged. “The house’s secure enough. And sometimes you just…” she trailed off, looked at him, then looked away. “Anyway. Any chance this is just a social call? Maybe, y’know, ‘hey, Dawn, let’s get dinner and talk about our lives?’”

“No.”

“No, of course not. You need something.”

“I do.”

“Let me guess,” she said, patting the couch cushion next to her. “You want that dirt on your spook boyfriend after all.”

He flopped down on the couch next to her. “Kinda.”

“Kinda?”

“I need to find out who—someone else is—someone else wants him dead. I need to know—“

Dawn smirked. “Man, Barton, you sure know how to pick them.”

“Yeah,” Clint huffed. “Yeah, I guess—are you going to help me out?”

“You want a list?” she said, sharp, serious all of the sudden. There was suspicion in her eyes, but also concern. She had a terrible poker face, and Clint found it strangely comforting. 

“You got one?”

“I do.” She looked at him for a moment, and then stood up. “What’re you going to do with it?”

“I don’t know,” he said; it wasn’t true, and she shook her head like she knew it.

“It’s a…it’s a long list.”

Clint had kind of figured. “That’s okay,” he said. “I’ve got time.”

“Yeah, that’s kind of…” Dawn said, sighing. “Kind of what I was afraid of, actually.”


	27. Chapter 27

"Hey," he said, trying to be as casual about it as he could. Which was kind of hard, while standing in the shadows of a darkened room, watching someone look for you with a gun in their hand.

Phil was too good to drop said gun, but his shoulders stiffened. He turned around, bringing his hand up to his ear. "No, Hill, false alarm…no, just…I think it was a cat. Guess I'm still just paranoid. Yeah, that's fine. Good night." 

Clint stepped closer, tried to get a better look at him: he was thin, pale, breathing a little too hard. The last one was probably Clint’s fault; all of it was probably Clint’s fault. 

"You look good," he said, and Phil rolled his eyes. 

"Go fuck yourself," Phil said, heading back to his bedroom. Clint followed, watched as he plopped his gun down on the bedside table, took out his earpiece, and stood, for a second, steadying his breaths. Then he turned around. "It's been three months."

"I know how long it's been," he said, a little defensively, and crossed his arms in front of him. "I just…" he let out a breath. "It's good to see you."

Phil sat on the edge of his bed, and dropped his face into his hands. "I should fucking shop you to Nick right now."

"You mean like you were going to do from the start?" 

Phil sighed, looked back up at him, looked fucking _wounded_ about it. "It wasn't like that."

"What _was_ it like, then? What the fuck _was_ it like, Coulson? You _knew_ who I was. You were in contact with SHIELD the whole time, weren't you? And you fucking _lied_ to me about it, and you have the _goddamn nerve_ to act like _I'm_ the one who screwed _you_ over? Dammit, Coulson! Reyes had you fucking pegged and she was _right_."

"What are you—"

"Everything's about SHIELD with you. Always was."

"No. No, it's—it wasn't," Phil said, and stood up; it took obvious effort, but Clint was still too pissed to feel sorry.

"No?"

"Clint. I swear, it wasn't—" He brought his hand up and rubbed his forehead. "SHIELD is all I've had. For a very long time. Everyone I care about, everyone I trust. It was just easier."

"Is that why you wanted me at SHIELD? Because it'd be easier on you?"

"I _want_ you at SHIELD because I think it'd be easier on _you_!"

Clint wanted to laugh; like it was still an option, like he'd be welcomed in with open arms after breaking out of a secure SHIELD facility and showing up Nick Fury. He didn't, just stared at Phil for a while. When he didn't respond, Phil sat back down, and with a sigh, Clint followed. 

"Do you think I'm a bad guy, Coulson?"

Phil seemed to need to think about it, or at the least, how to answer it: "Does it matter what I think?" he said, finally, and Clint had to give him credit for it.

"Guess not," he said. "But for what it's worth, Coulson: I am. I've done some bad shit, and killing people's not the least of it. But not for nothing, I have killed a hell of a lot of people."

"You didn't kill me."

"I like you," Clint said, and it was easy enough to admit. He even smiled a little, and to his surprise, Phil smiled back. "I like this," the thrum of energy between them, the soft look in Phil's eyes. "But SHIELD? Shit, Coulson. The fuck do you think I can do at _SHIELD_?"

"More than you can do without it."

Clint snorted. "Is this your usual pitch? 'cause I've got to say, it sucks."

"God, no," Phil groaned, face back in his hands. "I have a whole routine, actually. I like to have a file in front of me, do a whole spiel."

"Oh yeah?"

"Truth, justice, and the American Way feature pretty heavily."

Clint scooted a little closer, not close enough to touch yet. "That works for people, huh?"

Phil bumped their shoulders together. "Worked for me."

Clint turned his head to look at him, and Phil kissed him. And yeah, it was a surprise, but _fuck_ yeah, it was a _good_ surprise, and Clint leaned into him, twisting, bringing his legs up to kneel on the bed. Phil sighed into his mouth and then drew back.

"Shit," he said. "Sorry. Just—missed that."

Clint shut his eyes and pressed his forehead against Phil's. "Apology accepted," he said, and sat back. 

Phil looked at him, then reached over: trailed his fingers along Clint’s cheekbone, then over the shell of his ear. “How are—how’ve you been?” he said, voice low with concern. 

“Fine,” Clint said, and forced himself to meet Phil’s eyes.

“Yeah?” Phil said, fingers tracing over the fresh scar along Clint’s hairline. “I hear you’ve been busy.”

“Well, y’know, I…” he sighed, leaned into Phil’s palm as it was pressed against Clint’s cheek. “Yeah, I’ve been busy.”

"Contract work?"

Clint choked out a laugh. "Not exactly."

“I thought you were done in the States.”

“I’m not,” he said, and leaned in to kiss him again. Phil went with it, wrapped his hand around the back of Clint’s neck, and Clint melted, curled his arms around Phil’s chest, and clung to him, even after the kiss broke apart. “I’m not, I’m not done,” he mumbled into Phil’s shoulder, and Phil stroked his back and sighed. 

“Clint,” he said, pressing a kiss to the top of his hair. “Clint, you don’t have to—“

“I _do_ have to—“

“I can take care of—“

Clint laughed, pulled back just enough to see him properly, to reach up and hold Phil’s face in his hands. “Phil,” he said, and Phil looked at him, blue eyes soft and exhausted. 

“Yeah?”

“Just…shut up for a minute, okay? Just let me…” his voice caught. “Just let me be here. For a while. Okay?”

“Okay,” Phil said, smiling a little, and pulled him close again.

*

He fell asleep in Phil’s bed.

He woke up in Phil’s arms, pressed tight against Phil’s chest. Phil was already awake; Clint wasn’t sure how he knew, because Phil’s breathing was steady and his heartbeat was even. Clint wanted to close his eyes again and pretend he could spend the rest of his life there. He looked up instead; Phil smiled down at him, ran his hand down along Clint’s arm. 

“Good morning,” Phil said.

Clint snuggled against his chest and shut his eyes. “’morning.”

“You got any plans for the next few days?”

Clint stifled his grin in Phil’s shirt. “No plans.” 

“You want to get out of town for a while?”

Clint had barely been _in_ town for a full day; he nodded anyway. “How long’s a while?”

“I don’t know yet,” Phil said. 

Clint lifted his head. “We running away or something?”

Phil’s smile wavered for a moment, then disappeared altogether. He shut his eyes, kissed Clint, quick and desperate, and didn’t answer.

*

They flew to Switzerland in first class; it was Phil's money, Clint figured, and appreciated it. The seats were wide and leather and Phil fell asleep on his shoulder and kept his hand on Clint's thigh the whole time.

They landed in Geneva around noon. The city was quaint and pretty and unnerving, but Phil seemed to be in his element, renting a bright-red convertible and grinning at Clint from the driver's seat. 

Clint gave him a doubtful look back. "Subtle, Coulson." 

Phil just laughed. "I've always wanted one of these."

Clint shook his head and smiled as Phil put on some sunglasses, put the car in drive, and cruised off. 

They drove along a lake with crystal-clear water — it was gorgeous and pure, but placid, and Clint got bored easy. Phil was more interesting, his hair and tie whipping in the wind, his smile softer now but entirely new. 

It must’ve take about an hour to get into the mountains but Clint couldn't even tell. They drove around one of them for a while, passed through a tunnel, hit a curve, and all of the sudden there was a broad stone gate in front of them. There was a keypad, and Phil punched in a code, pressed his thumb into a glowing square, and waved at what was probably a camera. Clint sat next to him, feeling supremely awkward and entirely superfluous.

*

"This is a _school_?"

It looked like a castle; it was, in fact, a castle: turrets and big grey stones and a freakin' drawbridge. He was surprised not to find a moat, honestly. There were a bunch of kids running around, in tidy, forest green uniforms with some kind of coat of arms on the front of their blazers. 

Phil shrugged. "Children of kings; they want a familiar atmosphere."

They looked like kids; just normal kids, some happy, some annoyed. Couple of them were looking at the car, and Clint gave a friendly wave. 

"You like kids?" Phil said, very casually, and Clint laughed as he rolled his eyes. 

"Really?"

"Yeah," Phil said, parking the car. "Yeah, you're right."

*

They got stopped a couple of times as they made their way across the campus: Phil flashed his SHIELD badge and walked on, with Clint trailing after him. He tried very, very hard to convince himself he hadn't missed that, the gravitational pull Phil exerted on him, but wasn't sure it worked, given the grin he could feel spreading across his face.

The stables were, as expected, amazing: stalls wider than most of the rooms Clint had lived in, floors clean enough to eat off of. Clint remembered pictures of old riding halls in Europe, lit by chandeliers: he wouldn't've been surprised if this was one of them.

Phil seemed to know where he was going, weaving through the vast network of stalls and passageways.

"You sure she's going to be here?" Clint asked, and Phil smiled.

"She's always here when she's not in class."

And of course Phil would know when she was in class: Clint had seen him talking to her about it, all those months ago. 

Phil stopped short, and Clint almost knocked into him. And there she was, straight ahead of them: Harriet Marshall, looking more than two years older than the picture Marshall had given him, but still with the thick black braid down her back, a helmet tucked under her arm.

"Agent Coulson?" she said, frowning a little. "Is everything okay?"

"Everything's fine, Harry," Phil said, honest, but making no effort to be soothing. "But we need to talk."

"Who's this?" she nodded at Clint, and her hands clenched at her side.

"A friend. But we can talk in private, if you—"

"Yes," she said. "Yes, I'd prefer that." 

Phil looked at Clint, who nodded. Stayed put as Phil walked away, but kept an eye on where they went: an outdoor ring, it looked like, not much for privacy but she seemed more comfortable out there. Phil started talking, and she stood, with her arms wrapped around herself, as she listened.

Clint could see the tears in her eyes as Phil spoke, but she kept her head up, nodding, and when Phil was done, she offered her hand. Phil shook it, utterly professional, and then she laughed, shook her head, and threw her arms around Phil's neck.

Clint knew the feeling, and had to turn away. He watched the scene out of the corner of his eye, though, more out of habit than anything: the place was as safe as it could be, _Phil_ was as safe as he could be, as safe as Clint'd been able to make him. He did his best to not _look_ like he'd been looking, at least: patted the soft fuzzy nose of the gorgeous black horse that seemed utterly delighted to see him. The horses he'd know at the circus had been solid, smart animals, quarter horses mostly, but this guy was all shiny smooth, huge but delicately built. He nuzzled at Clint's shirt and huffed when he realized Clint didn't have a treat, but deigned to hang out anyway, and Phil smiled at them both as he walked back to meet Clint. 

"You made a friend," he said.

"He probably thinks I'm the stable boy."

"Hm," Phil said, reaching into his pocket and pulling out a white-and-red stripped mint wrapped in cellophane. He handed it over to Clint, who unwrapped it and held it out. The horse inhaled it and crunched away. Phil gave him a distracted pat. "You want to head out?"

"I think security's gonna come down on you pretty hard if you walk off with a horse, Coulson."

"Funny," Phil said, and Clint grinned, throwing his arm around Phil's shoulder, pulling him over to kiss his temple. Phil felt warm and solid against his side and he stopped smiling, felt his heart contract in his chest. 

"Let's get out of here, babe."

They walked back to the car; Phil offered him the keys but Clint pretended not to notice, just headed back to the passenger’s side and hopped over the door and into the seat. Phil laughed, shaking his head, and got in like a normal person. 

They’d been on the road for about fifteen minutes when Clint realized: “It’s been three months.”

“I know how long it’s been,” Phil said, smirking a little, and Clint rolled his eyes.

“I mean, it’s been three months, you hadn’t told her about her grandmother yet?”

“That’s not what I was telling her.” 

Clint waited; the answer wasn’t forthcoming, at least not on its own. “What were you telling her?”

“She can come back to New York now. If she wants.”

“Does she?”

Phil shrugged. “It’s up to her. She’s made friends here, and there’s a lot of bad memories back home. I just wanted her to know she had a choice.”

“And you had to come out here for that?”

Phil became very, very focused on the road ahead of them. “I hadn’t seen her in a while, and we were in the area.”

Clint looked at him for a moment: the tips of his ears were red, and he glanced, very subtly, over at Clint, and then back at the road when he realized he’d been caught. 

“Okay,” Clint said, and leaned back in his seat.


	28. Chapter 28

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Well, finally.

They drove back to Geneva; Phil (or SHIELD, probably) had an apartment overlooking the lake. Clint got a pretty good look at it, and the strange, gushing fountain in the middle.

"The Jet d'Eau," Phil said, and Clint turned around: he was standing there, jacket off, the first buttons of his shirt undone, his tie long gone. Holding two large glasses full of white wine, one of which he handed off to Clint. He was a picture, one Clint couldn't take his eyes off of. "It's more than a hundred years old."

Clint sipped his wine; not his thing, normally, but it tasted good. He smiled, angled closer to Phil, and "Kinda pornographic, don't you think?"

Phil smiled back and looked away, but his body inched closer to Clint's anyway. "I don't know what kind of porn you've been watching, but I get the feeling you're about to be very disappointed."

Clint snorted, reached for Phil's glass, put both of them down on a very expensive looking glass table. "Impossible," he said, and wrapped his arms around Phil's neck.

"Are you sure about that?" Phil said, easing his hands around Clint's waist. "There's been kind of a lot of build up, here, the reality's bound to be something of a let down."

"Are you _nervous_?" Clint said, and Phil ducked his head, which was _adorable_. Clint swooped in to kiss him, quick. "God, Phil. I'll be…" he laughed a little. "I swear I'll be…gentle…"

"Don’t you _dare_ ," Phil said, and yanked him in.

*

They stumbled against each other, and the walls, and the furniture, for a while: Clint because he wasn’t 100% sure where the bedroom was, Phil because he seemed entirely flustered and just as entirely satisfied with pining Clint to the wall and sucking at his neck.

Clint felt himself getting weak in the knees, and let his head fall back against the wall and grabbed at as much of Phil as he could reach: his back, his shoulders, the soft, short hairs at the back of his neck. Phil’s hips canted against him and Clint groaned, yanking Phil’s head up and attacking his mouth. Phil’s tongue was wet and hot, and Clint sucked on it, drawing a low moan from him, before Phil pulled back. Breathless, with bright eyes and flushed cheeks, he pressed his palms to Clint’s chest and stared at him for a moment. 

“Come…come on,” he panted, swooping in to kiss Clint again. Clint wanted to be a smart ass, wanted to ask him where it was they were supposed to be going, or why they couldn’t just do it there, against the wall, like Phil so obviously wanted. But he could barely think, much less speak, much less do anything but go with him, as Phil weaved their fingers together and dragged him away from the wall.

Yeah, Clint went, let himself walked backwards down the hall. Let go of Phil’s hands and threw his arms around Phil’s neck and Phil kissed him again, guided him back with his hands on Clint’s hips. Clint closed his eyes, felt Phil take a quick, shuddering breath before somehow opening a door and maneuvering them through it.

Clint pulled back for a moment, not to get a look at the room but to get a look at Phil: his lips were very red and curved into a slight smile, and his eyes were scanning Clint’s face.

“What?” Clint said, laughing, and Phil ducked back in and pressed a kiss to his nose. 

“I’m just really happy to see you,” he said, blushing a little, and Clint grinned.

“Yeah, I kinda got that…” he bumped his hips against Phil’s, rubbed their erections together. “That _feeling_ ,” he said, and Phil groaned, only partly from arousal. “C’mere,” he said, dropping his arms from around Phil’s neck, reaching down to unzip Phil’s pants. Phil squeezed Clint’s hips and then slid a hand across his stomach, pushing up his shirt. His fingers dipped below the waistband of Clint’s jeans and Clint found himself swaying closer, pressing his face to Phil’s neck as he unbuttoned Phil’s pants. He pushed Phil’s underwear out of the way, drew out his hard, thick cock. Curled his palm around it, breathed in the fresh, clean scent of Phil’s shirt, the sweat and salt of his skin.

Phil was solid warmth against him, breathing heavily into his hair. He’d finished undoing Clint’s fly and was running careful, calloused fingers along Clint’s dick; his other hand was firm on Clint’s ass. “God,” he murmured, right into Clint’s ear. “God, the things I want to do for you.”

“Anything,” Clint said, gasping as Phil’s grip tightened, as he started stroking with an achingly slow, steady rhythm. “ _Anything_ , Phil, I’ll take anything, just—“

Phil’s cock twitched against his palm and Clint laughed, squeezed, ran his thumb over the head. He swirled the bead of pre-come over the soft skin and Phil made a desperate, choking sound into Clint’s hair. His strokes sped up and Clint squirmed, wanting to get closer but not wanting to loosen his own grip on Phil. Phil hummed, a low, thoughtful sound, before reaching over and pushing Clint’s hand away.

“What are you— _oh_ ,” Clint groaned as Phil pulled him in, lined up their cocks, and wrapped his hand around them both. Phil was firm and impossibly hot, and Clint bucked his hips, let himself savor in the feeling of Phil’s cock sliding against his. Phil thrust back, and Clint gasped for air, squirming and desperate, before lifting his head, opening his eyes enough to be able to find Phil’s mouth, and dove into another kiss.

It was open-mouthed and sloppy, distracted, as they rocked together and pulled at each other’s clothing. Phil gasped into Clint’s mouth, and Clint arched up against him, eager to feel each twitch and pulse of his cock as he came across Clint’s stomach. Phil used it to slick the way, jerking him off quicker than before, and caught Clint when he came, kept him upright as his knees buckled and his head swam.

They breathed together; Phil stroked his side and Clint nuzzled against him, gripped his shirt, in case Phil had any bright ideas about pulling away. He didn’t; started kissing Clint’s neck again, and Clint found himself practically vibrating with appreciation. 

“Wow,” Clint mumbled, tucking his face back into the curve between Phil’s neck and shoulder. “Talk about teamwork.”

Phil gave a helpless, desperate laugh. “Fuck,” he said, and Clint smiled. “Fuck, I was going to do that better.”

“I think you did it fine, Coulson.”

Phil laughed again, the same adorable, inevitable almost-giggle. “Some room for improvement, though?”

“Well,” Clint pulled back a little, slid his hands up and along Phil’s torso; his shirt was damp with sweat, and his chest was still rising and falling with obvious effort. “Could always log some more practice hours, I guess.”

Phil chuckled, and looked down, then up. “We look ridiculous,” he said, and they kind of did: Phil’s pants were crumpled down by his ankles, and Clint’s jeans were halfway down his thighs. Their dicks were hanging out, sad and spent. Clint went to unbutton Phil’s shirt without thinking about it, and Phil barely reacted, just slid his hands up under Clint’s shirt and rubbed his back. 

Clint hadn’t really been thinking about it, but when he finished the last button, got a full view of his chest, he froze. Reached out, then dropped his hand, then reached out, then found his chin being raised by Phil’s index finger.

“Hey,” he said, and Phil smiled at him.

“I’m fine.”

“I know.”

“I’m not—it was messy. I lost a lot of blood,” god, like Clint didn’t know it, like Clint didn’t still dream about it. “But she missed my lungs; missed my heart. It could’ve been a lot worse.”

“She?” Clint said, not even trying, and Phil sighed.

“Barton.”

“I’m smarter than that?” 

“I’m starting to wonder,” Phil said, and Clint didn’t think he’d reacted, but Phil frowned and shook his head. “No. No, I’m kidding, Clint. You are. And I’m not—She wasn’t trying to kill me.”

It was true, but not entirely: “She didn’t care if she killed you.”

“I know. But it’s okay. I’m fine,” he said again, and Clint nodded. His head dropped again, and he pushed Phil’s shirt off his shoulders. It fell to the floor and Clint waited all of about a second before rushing him, wrapping his arms around Phil’s bare torso. Phil hugged him back, held him for a long time, before murmuring, “Hold on,” into Clint’s hair. Clint did, Clint _was_ , and Phil pushed his shirt up, and he had to let go for a moment for Phil to get it off all the way. He leaned in again, and stumbled a little: his pants were almost around his ankles by now. 

Phil caught him, pressing a hand to the flat of his chest, and Clint laughed, braced a hand on Phil’s shoulder for a moment while he toed off his shoes and stepped out of his pants. Phil slid his hand up and around Clint’s neck, and dragged him in, not for a kiss, but to lean against while he slipped out of his own pants and shoes. Clint ran his hands over Phil’s skin all the while, tracing over old wounds, the regular bumps of his spine. Phil’s hands were doing more of the same, and when he turned his chin, Clint followed.

They stood, pressed against each other, breathing the same air, for what could have been forever. Then Phil’s tongue flickered out, a nervous tic, maybe, but Clint chased it, licked his way into Phil’s mouth. Phil smiled against him, let himself be pushed back, back toward the bed Clint had gotten enough of a glimpse of to know it fit two, which was all he really cared about at the moment. They tumbled onto it: Clint had planned to throw him down, then straddle him carefully, but got distracted by the fact that Phil was against him, that he was naked, that this was happening, finally. 

So they fell and Clint kissed him and Phil laughed and kissed him back, ran his hands along Clint’s skin, wherever he could reach. 

They were lying horizontally across the bed and that wasn’t going to work, probably, but it was just wide enough that they weren’t falling off, and Clint couldn’t bring himself to move, to do anything that would make it harder for himself to lick slow, wet strips along Phil’s throat. Phil gasped, sharp and almost pained. His head fell back, and Clint licked him again, trailing his tongue along the tendons of his neck, the line of his collarbone. 

Phil’s chest heaved as Clint kissed his way down it, sucking at the warm skin, the smooth scars. He wanted to flip Phil over and taste the freckles between his shoulders, the powerful planes of his back. He didn’t; he slid off the bed and onto his knees, between Phil’s legs. 

Gripped Phil’s knees, nosed his way up along Phil’s thighs: Phil was only half-hard but Clint _wanted_ him, wanted to taste him. But he had to ask, because it seemed to matter: “D’you want…” he pressed a kiss to Phil’s knee. “Do you want me to use a condom?”

“I want you to fuck me.” Phil was breathless and Clint felt his jaw drop, his eyes widen. 

“Seriously?”

Phil sat up: it took effort, he had to grab at the sheets, but he did, and he leaned over, grabbed Clint’s face in his hands and kissed him again. “Yeah,” he said, and Clint surged up against him and pinned him to the mattress. Phil shook beneath him, with laughter mostly, but his cock grew rigid against Clint’s hip and his breaths started coming faster, so Clint was willing to at least pretend it was from arousal as well.

“I…have a…” Phil managed, between kisses, even as his dick kept twitching against Clint’s belly. Clint shifted without thinking about it, made sure they were rubbing against each other. “Condom. In my…my wallet…” Clint groaned, and dropped his forehead to Phil’s chest. Phil let out a weak, apologetic chuckle. “I was really going to do this better.”

Clint dropped a kiss to the flushed skin at the base of his throat, and scrambled off. It took a minimum amount of riffling through Phil’s pockets and then wallet before he could rush back to the bed: Phil had moved, made sure he wasn’t half off the bed anymore, and Clint grinned as he knelt on the bed, sliding one knee between Phil’s legs, then the other, and dropping the condom and packet of lube onto the sheets beside him.

“Hi,” he said. Phil was stretched out beneath him, familiar and beautiful, for all that he was a little thinner and a lot paler than he had been, for all that new scars littered his chest, and Clint couldn’t take his eyes off him. 

Phil smiled, slid his hands up Clint’s thighs, across his stomach, up his chest. “Hi.”

And Clint was going to say something cool, something like _well, where were we?_ , something like _I’m going to fuck you till all you can do is scream my name._ Instead:

“God, I missed having you around.” And then he groaned, because _what_ , but Phil sat up, wrapped his hand around the back of Clint’s neck, and kissed him again, swift and tender.

“I missed every single thing about you,” he said, pulling back just enough to breathe against Clint’s lips. “You stubborn, sullen, mouthy—“

Clint lunged, kissed him so hard their teeth clicked, and pushed Phil back onto the mattress with as much force as he could manage, then covered Phil’s body with his own: he wanted to feel every inch of him, of warm skin and scar tissue. Phil grinned into his mouth and pulled at his hair. Clint laughed and nipped at his bottom lip.

He dropped his head to whisper in Phil’s ear: “I _am_ going to fuck you, Coulson,” he said, grinding his dick against Phil’s with a slow roll of his hips. “I’m going to fuck you hard, and then I’m going to suck you off, and then we’re gonna—“ Phil wrapped a leg around his waist, pulled him in tight. “ _We’re_ gonna have to _talk_ about who’s a _stubborn, sullen_ …”

“Mouthy?” Phil murmured, into his hair, and Clint nodded.

“Mouthy…” Phil started sucking at his neck, and Clint groaned. “ _Asshole._ ” 

Phil let out a low, fond chuckle. “Looking forward to it,” he said, as Clint reached for the lube.


	29. Chapter 29

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> So, this chapter also has sex.

Clint woke up with Phil pressed against his back. Still asleep this time, with his arm curled across Clint’s chest. Clint leaned back against him, and Phil sighed, nuzzled at the nape of his neck.

“Phil,” he said, soft, and Phil murmured something into his skin. Clint smiled. “What was that?”

Phil grumbled something that sounded a lot like _too early_ , and Clint grinned, turned around in Phil’s arms.

“ _Phil_ ,” he hummed, and ducked his head, pressed a kiss to Phil’s collarbone. “C’mon, babe…” 

Phil ran his hand through Clint’s hair, but didn’t react otherwise. Clint laughed and settled, resting his cheek on Phil’s chest. His heartbeat was steady and strong, and had almost lulled Clint back to sleep, when a phone started ringing.

“Oh, _fuck_ ,” Phil said, and practically pushed him off while scrambling to grab the phone, which he answered it with a sharp, tense “Coulson.” Clint flopped over onto his back and stared up at the ceiling. He felt Phil get up, and glanced over; saw him pulling on a t-shirt and underwear from the pile of clothes in the middle of the room, with the phone balanced between his shoulder and his ear, talking the whole time. “No, I haven’t—“ he turned, and caught Clint’s eye. _Sorry_ , he mouthed, then turned back and went out the door before Clint could say anything. “Sir, it’s a big decision…” he heard, before the door shut.

*

Phil was gone for about fifteen minutes, then came back, looking flustered and pissy, with the phone still in his hand. “Sorry about—“

Clint grabbed the phone out of his hand, threw it onto a bedside table behind them, and pushed him against the wall. Phil didn’t seem to mind: he opened his mouth, sucked at Clint’s tongue, and grabbed Clint’s hips. Clint tangled his hands in the white t-shirt Phil had put on, then crowded up against him, rolled his hips against Phil’s. Phil smiled into his mouth and thrust back. He was hard already and Clint enjoyed that for a while, the feeling of affecting Phil that way, of Phil letting himself be affected, before dragging him from the wall and back to the bed. 

“Clint,” he said, surprised and almost amused, as Clint straddled him.

“Yeah?” Clint said, not looking up, just slid his hands under Phil’s shirt, tried to peel it off of him. Phil seemed to get the picture and lifted his arms, leaned up just enough to bring the shirt over his head. 

“What are you—“

“You wanted to fuck me too, right?”

“I… _yeah_ ,” Phil said, running his hands up and down Clint’s sides. “Yeah, of course, but—”

“Well…” he drawled, rubbing his ass against Phil’s still-clothed dick.

Phil groaned. “ _God_ , Clint,” and Clint crawled over him, slow and teasing.

“C’mon, Coulson,” he breathed, so close to Phil’s mouth that he could practically taste him, taste the coffee he’d apparently made. “Time’s a wastin’.”

That was all it took, apparently: Phil flipped him over, pinned him down, and kissed him, once, fiercely, as he spread Clint’s legs apart.

And it was nice: Phil was gentle with him, gentler than he’d been with Phil the night before. Took his time opening Clint up, and Clint would’ve complained, about how it was taking too long, how he didn’t need another one of Phil’s short, thick fingers inside of him, he needed Phil’s wide, hot cock. But Phil kept _talking_ to him, warm, heavy words breathed against the side of his neck, about how _good_ Clint felt, how perfect he was, and Clint kind of blissed out on it. He whined a little when Phil pulled his fingers out.

“Easy,” Phil said, soothing, stroking the back of Clint’s thigh. Clint nodded, not even knowing at what, and Phil slid in, so carefully that Clint wanted to thrust up against him, fuck himself on Phil’s cock if Phil wasn’t willing to do it right. He squirmed, and Phil lifted his head. “Okay?” he said. His eyes were a little hazy but he seemed to be fighting to focus on Clint’s face, and he even brought up a hand to touch Clint’s cheek. “Do you—“

“Just fuck me,” Clint said, and was horrified to realize his voice had cracked. “Please, Coul— _Phil_. Phil, please, just…”

Phil made a soft, concerned noise, but didn’t pull out. He frowned a little, leaned in, and gave Clint a kiss. “Okay,” he said, as his hips gave a slow, rolling thrust. Clint moaned, partly from how good it felt, partly from how grateful he was Phil wasn’t going to make a big deal out of it. 

He wrapped his arms around Phil’s body, rubbed his hands up and down along Phil’s back, trying to trace and remember every scar he’d seen. His fingers brushed against the one he’d made, the short, straight line where Phil’s tracker had been; remembered Phil’s blood on his hands, for the first time if not the last, and pressed his face into Phil’s neck. Gave into the sharp, desperate gasps that practically burst from his lungs as Phil’s thrusts sped up. 

“ _Clint_ ,” Phil was murmuring, in between messy kisses to his neck and shoulder. “Clint, are you…”

“Fine, I’m fine, just don’t—“ Clint gasped. “Don’t stop, okay? Don’t, just _don’t_ …”

Phil didn’t; he reached up and ran a hand through Clint’s hair, but he didn’t stop. When he came, with a last, desperate twitch, with a low, breathlessly pleased moan, Clint pulled him even closer and tried to drown in the feeling of being held down, of being protected. 

Phil rolled off of him after, got him off with tight, sure strokes and a lot of sweet, tender kisses to Clint’s chest and shoulders. Clint came, feeling less relief than total exhaustion, grabbed Phil’s arm, and dragged him on top again.

“I’m going to crush you,” Phil said, and Clint could hear the soft, sated smile in his tone.

“Nah,” Clint said, and tucked his face against Phil’s neck.

*

It was about noon before Clint got up again: Phil got another call, stepped out for that one too, and Clint needed a moment to think while not surrounded with the scent of Phil and sex and the two of them together.

The view of the city was different in the bedroom: rows the tidy buildings, then trees and mountains beyond. It looked nice down there, but Clint got the feeling he wasn't going to get much of a chance to enjoy it.

The door opened behind him, but Clint didn’t move. 

“Clint.”

He glanced back; Phil was a few steps away from him, looking like he wanted to get closer.

“Yeah?” he said, turning back around. 

“You okay?”

Clint wasn’t going to answer that; he didn’t know _how_ to answer that, not really. “Can I ask you something?”

“Of course,” Phil said, stepping up behind him, and pressing a kiss to Clint’s bare shoulder.

“Why’d you bring me out here?”

He felt Phil smile as he wrapped his arms around Clint’s waist. “I thought you’d like it.”

“Yeah?” 

“Yeah,” Phil said, nuzzling at the back of his neck. “And I thought we should—I thought we should spend some time together. Without anyone breathing down our necks.”

“We could’ve done that at your apartment.”

Phil shrugged, and his tone was deceptively casual when he spoke again. “I suppose so.”

“But you wanted to be _here_. You wanted me out of New York.”

“Clint—“

“I’m in a lot of trouble, huh?” Phil sighed, and Clint laughed to himself. “Yeah, stupid question. Does SHIELD know where I am?”

“I haven’t told anyone,” which wasn’t exactly _No_ but Clint was willing to let that go.

“I bet that’s killing you.” 

“I’m fine.”

“Are you?” he said, turning in Phil’s arms. “You love your job, you _need_ your job, and your job means you can’t—means we can’t…“ he trailed off. “Am I on the wrong track, here?”

“No,” Phil said, pressing his forehead against Clint’s. “No, you’re not.” 

“Then what are we doing here, Coulson?”

“I care about you.”

Clint laughed, incredulous. “You _care_ about me?” 

Phil looked torn, like he wanted to do something else, _say_ something else, but Clint was just so _angry_ at him, suddenly, because all he wanted was to forget the way Phil looked at him sometimes. The way Phil was looking at him right now, like Clint was some broken thing he could put back together, or a puzzle to be solved, because the worst of it was, maybe Phil could. If anyone could, it'd be Phil. 

He wondered which would be worse, Phil seeing him that way, as a charity case, a fixer upper, left better than he'd been found, or as a puzzle to be solved then discarded once he had. 

Phil’s eyes dropped. “I’m trying not to freak you out.”

“I think we’re past that, Phil,” he said, stepping away from the warmth of Phi’s body. “I think we’re past you trying to fucking _coddle_ me and _rehabilitate_ me and turn me into one of SHIELD’s perfect little soldiers just so you can keep me around.”

“That’s not what I want for you.”

Clint rolled his eyes. “Come on, Coulson.”

“Clint. Listen to me—”

“I _am_ listening to you.”

“Are you?”

“ _Yes_.”

Phil walked up to him, but stayed a few inches away. Close enough to touch, but he didn’t. “You’re not that broken. You’re not some monster. I’m a soldier, Clint; you don’t think I’ve killed people? You don’t think I’ve killed the _wrong_ people, once or twice or more fucking times than I can count?”

“You didn’t get paid for it.”

“I sure as hell didn’t do it for free,” Phil snapped.

“I meant—“

“I know what you meant. But you’re wrong: you’re not some lost cause I get off on rescuing. I’m not in love with you because I think I can _fix_ you. I’m in love with you because…” Phil let out an exasperated breath. “You’re smart and you’re brave and you _care_ about people, and I—I care about you. That’s it. I care about you. I want you to be safe. I don’t want you at SHIELD if you don’t want to be at SHIELD, but I sure as hell don’t want you to be out there alone.”

“Then come with me,” Clint said, without thinking, and Phil blinked. Turned away from him, but not quickly enough that Clint didn’t see the flash of uncertainty in his eyes. He turned back before Clint could reach out for him; wrinkles had formed in the spot between his eyes, and Clint resisted the urge to rub them away, to kiss him there. 

“You know I can’t.”

“Then what are we—“

“I’m saying think about it. We’ve got a couple of days, we can work something out. I promise, Barton, we can—”

"And if we don't, what, I get the handshake and a head start?"

Phil let out a breath. "It won't be me coming after you. But SHIELD will, and when they find you—"

"They won't."

"I did."

"You're different."

"I'm not. And when they catch you, I won't be able to do anything about it but put in a good word."

"Well, you just do what you gotta do, Agent Coulson."

Phil’s eyes got all sad and intense, and he reached out, curled his hands over Clint’s arms. “I’m not saying you need to decide now,” he said, in a low, desperate voice. “I’m saying think about it. I’m saying we’ve got a couple of days, we can talk, I just—I don’t want to lose you again.”

Clint looked into his eyes: they were so beautifully calm, such a gorgeous soft blue, that he could’ve fallen into them and willingly drowned. He ducked his head instead. “Wow,” he said.

“Wow?”

“Wow.” He forced a laugh, and pulled out of Phil’s grasp. “That’s a hell of a lot better than truth, justice, and the American way.”

Phil blinked. “That wasn’t a line, Clint.”

Clint smirked; it took some effort. “Wasn't it?”

Phil let out a sharp, frustrated breath, and turned away from him. “Clint,” he said, tone mild and careful. “Give me a few days.”

“Why?”

“Because I’m in love with you." It was that same cool, clinical voice, and Clint wasn't sure what to make of _that_. He sighed.

“Two days,” he said, and knew immediately he was going to regret it.


	30. Chapter 30

He lasted about a day and a half; two nights and a morning, to be exact. Two nights and a morning worth of eating Phil’s food and sleeping in Phil’s bed, of Phil explaining his options and Clint not really listening, of sucking Phil off against the fancy kitchen island and curling up against him in beneath cool cotton sheets.

Sleeping with Phil was the best of it; he was going to miss that the most, later, and tried not to think about it too much.

*

Phil slept through Clint waking up, getting dressed, getting ready; Clint didn’t risk kissing him again, but watched him for a while anyway. Phil smiled in his sleep and rolled over, reached across the right side of the bed. Clint turned away, placed the red-white-and-blue key chain on top of Phil’s wallet, and left.

*

Geneva was small, and its train station was blessedly easy to get to. Everyone took one look at him and spoke English, real slow, and Clint was too thankful to be really insulted. Within a half hour he had a ticket to Berlin in his pocket, nothing to carry but the clothes on his back, the steady buzz of travelers enveloping him, and he felt safe.

Mistakenly, because it took all of five minutes: “You forgot to lock the door behind you,” Phil said, and Clint had to laugh.

“Sorry ‘bout that.”

“It’s fine,” Phil’s voice was so calm, though he had to be at the least disappointed. “Don’t worry about it.”

“Wasn’t going to.” 

“Sure,” Phil said, then cleared his throat. “I was kind of expecting you to run earlier."

Clint turned toward him: Phil was back in the suit and tie, and Clint’s breath caught. "Didn't have anywhere else to be." 

"And now?"

"I don't know, Coulson. Guess this is the last stop on our whistle-stop tour, so I'll be…" Clint shrugged. "Guess I’ll be heading out again."

Phil frowned, and narrowed his eyes, but Clint looked back at him, steady and impassive. After a moment, Phil nodded. “Okay.”

“ _Okay?_ ”

“If that’s what you want, Barton, I’m not going to stop you.”

Of all the passive-aggressive _bullshit_ , but that was the question, wasn’t it? What Clint _wanted_ , and what he could have, what he'd give up for it. Phil seemed to see that his resolve was wavering, and took a step toward him. Clint took a step of his own, and without thinking about it, without even caring about the mixed signals he was sending, walked right into Phil’s arms. Phil stroked his back, and Clint choked, buried his face against Phil’s shoulder. 

“Clint,” Phil sighed, and Clint shook his head, wrapped his arms around Phil’s waist. 

“Don’t,” he said. “I can’t. I can’t _think_ around you. You make me so fucking stupid, Phil. You mess me up, and I can’t—“ he took a shallow, painful breath, and the scent of Phil’s suit and cologne and skin came with it. _Perfect_ , Clint thought, and hated him a little. “I can’t.”

“Okay,” Phil said again, soft and strangely relieved. He pressed a kiss to Clint’s temple. “It’s fine, Clint. I get it.” Clint wondered if he did. Wondered if that mattered. Looked up at Phil as he spoke again. “Stay out of trouble, okay?”

“I’ll try,” Clint said, smirking a little, and Phil laughed.

“No, you won’t.” Clint leaned in to kiss him and Phil ducked his head. “Listen. I’m going to give you my card.”

“ _Phil_ ,” he groaned, and Phil shook his head, tucked said card into Clint’s pocket.

“Just in case you—just in case. Give me a call.”

"In case I change my mind?"

Phil looked him straight in the eyes. "In case you need something."

Clint sighed, thrust his hands in his pockets; he ran his fingers over the fancy card stock with raised edges, and the round, metallic keychain Phil had snuck in there as well. He looked back up at Phil, who blushed. Clint smiled at him, nodded once, and turned away.

He made it about three steps before turning back: Phil was still there, still watching him. 

"Take care of yourself, Agent Coulson," he called out behind him, and meant it.

*

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Seeing as this is the last chapter (OR IS IT?) I want to take some time to thank a few people:
> 
> 1) All the members of the Strike Team Clint/Coulson comm, without which I would've never started out on this behemoth of a fic [waaaaay back in November 2013.](http://striketeamclintcoulson.tumblr.com/post/65526486867/goals-for-morethanonepage)
> 
> 2) Special thanks to all the STCC folks on the Chatzy group, who've dealt with me whining and crying and getting super frustrated with this fic and providing advice. *hugs, kisses, flowers, etc*
> 
> 3) More special thanks to the person who originally posted [this prompt](http://imagineyourotp.tumblr.com/post/40756880476/imagine-person-a-being-hired-to-kill-person-b-but), over on imagineyourotp. 
> 
> 4) All of you amazing, awesome, inspiring readers who've kept up with this fic and left kudos and comments. You're the best <3
> 
> And for all of you, with regards to the ending...well, all I have to say is, watch this space ;)


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